THE    MIRTHFUL    LYRE 


BOOKS  BY 
ARTHUR  GUITERMAN 

THE  MIRTHFUL  LYRE 
THE  LAUGHING  MUSE 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 
ESTABLISHED  1817 


•THE 

MIRTHFUL 
LYRE- 


ARTHUR  GUITERMAN 

Author  of 

"THE   LAUGHING   MUSE" 


HARPER  6r  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 


3  8? 

THE  author  acknowledges  with  thanks  the  cour 
tesy  of  the  editors  of  Life,  The  Youth's  Companion, 
the  New  York  Times,  Harper's  Magazine,  Woman's 
Home  Companion,  Collier's  Weekly,  St.  Nicholas, 
The  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  McClure's  Magazine, 
The  Century,  Scribner's  Magazine,  Smith's  Magazine, 
Puck,  Good  Housekeeping,  The  Bellman,  The  Book 
man,  The  Designer,  The  Delineator,  Harper's  Ba 
zaar,  Ainslee's  Magazine,  the  Sun,  and  the  Herald, 
in  granting  permission  to  reprint  the  verses  con 
tained  in  this  book. 


THE  MIRTHFUL  LYRE 


Copyright,  1918,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  September,  1918 

i-s 


PHILOSOPHERS 

A  melancholy  Beaver 

Resided  by  a  rill; 
He  either  had  a  fever 

Or  else  he  had  a  chill; 

For  Mental  Inquisition 
Had  filled  him  full  of  dole 

About  his  Earthly  Mission 
Or  his  Eternal  Soul. 

In  June,  instead  of  basking 
Or  helping  build  the  dam, 

He  vexed  his  Conscience,  asking, 
"Why  Is  It  That  I  Am?" 

He  passed  the  winter,  sifting 
A  lot  of  Pregnant  Saws 

On  "Whither  Are  We  Drifting?" 
And  "Natures  Primal  Cause" 


A  Chickadee,  intruding 

One  afternoon  at  three, 
Disturbed  the  Beaver's  brooding 

By  whistling,  "  Chick~a-dee!" 

The  Beaver  reprimanded 

The  Gadabout  on  wings; 
Said  he,  "To  be  quite  candid, 

What  makes  you  do    These  Things? 

"All  over  Here  and  Yonder 
You  flitter,  flute,  and  fife. 

Why  dont  you  perch,  and  ponder 
The  Purposes  of  Life?" 

The  Chickadee  retorted, 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 
My  life  is  well  supported, 

The  woods  are  fresh  and  green; 

"My  top  note,  when  I  strike  it, 

May  be  of  little  use, 
Still,  people  seem  to  like  it, 

And  that's  a  good  excuse" 


The  Beaver  simply  snorted, 

As  Beavers  often  do. 
The  Chickadee  cavorted 

And  ate  a  worm  or  two. 

The  Chickadee  grew  apter 
At  whistling  "  Chick-a-dee!" 

The  Beaver  did  a  chapter 
On  "What  Life  Means  To  Me." 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


PHILOSOPHERS    .........  y 

FOLKS    AND    THINGS 
THE  ORIGIN  OF  SPECIES      ......  3 

SURVIVAL  OF  THE  FITTEST  ....  7 

THE  CURSE  OF  THE  ANTIQUE  ....  8 

ELEGY  ..........  l6 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  TRUE  SPORTSMAN    .     .     17 
BALLADE  OF  SPORT     ......  2I 

THE  CONQUEROR    ....... 

TEMPERAMENT    ......  g 

THE  MOCCASINS     ..... 

THE  GREAT  TYRANNOSAURUS  ....  3I 

TOBACCO    ....... 

THE  SAVAGE 


••... 

IHE  MAIDEN  WHO  TOLD    ..... 
A  LAUNDRY  LAY    .... 

THE  SUPERSTITIOUS  GHOST 

r  •    i  *    •     •     •    43 

ix 


i 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SAND  WITCH 45 

HEROES 48 

A  BAZAAR  BALLAD 49 

A  MASCOT 51 

NOTE  ON  THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  AIR 
PLANES 53 

CAMOUFLAGE •    •  55 

DIPLOMACY •  58 

COAL 59 

THE  DREAM  OF  CHUANG  Tzu 61 

As  TO  POETS "3 

A  HINDU  PARABLE 64 

JUDISTHRA    AND    HlS    DOG 65 

OMAR  AND  REASON 67 

THAT  FRAUD,  OMAR 69 

SARSAPARILLA 7° 

RULES  FOR  EDITORIAL  WRITERS     ....  72 

A  BLESSING  ON  ALL  COLLEGE  JOURNALISTS   .  74 

THE  EGG-ROLLING 76 

OF  CERTAIN  IRISH  FAIRIES 78 

THE  FAIRIES 8l 

THE  PEACOCK 83 

OUR  WEDDINGS 85 

SPRING 87 

PICNICS 89 

MEXICAN  SERENADE 9° 

[x] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SUMMER  BOARDER 92 

ARCHITECTURE 94 

SONG  OF  THE  P.EDUCERS 95 

THE  LYRIC  BAEDEKER: 

PHILADELPHIA 97 

SEATTLE 99 

KALAMAZOO 101 

A  DEFENSE  OF  CONNECTICUT 103 

LITERATURE 106 

SHAKESPEARE-BACON 108 

AFTERNOON  TEA:    A  SONNET  SEQUENCE      .  109 
AVERSIONS: 

THE  BANKER 116 

THE  ARCHITECT 116 

THE  DOCTOR 117 

THE  EDITOR 118 

THE  COOK 118 

THE  AVIATOR 119 

THE  ICEMAN 120 

THE  PLUMBER 120 

THE  INTERIOR  DECORATOR 121 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN 122 

THE  LAWYER 122 

THE  MODISTE 123 

PUSH-CARTS 124 

[xi] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

MEN 126 

STROKE  THIRTEEN 128 

THE  IDOL-MAKER  PRAYS 130 


A  FEW  CHILDREN 

MY  PLATFORM 133 

CLOTHES 134 

RUTH 135 

ANNABEL 137 

A  RHYME  FOR  JOSEPHINE 138 

AWFUL  JOHNNY  BROWN 139 

WIND-IN-THE-HAIR  AND  RAIN-IN-THE-FACE  .  140 

A  POST-CARD  FROM  CAMP 142 

WILLIE  WET-FEET 143 

AROUND  THE  CLOCK  WITH  BABY    ....  1^4 

JUST  AS  IT  OUGHT  TO  BE 146 

FINGERS  AND  TOES 148 

MUMPS 150 

WHERE'S  MY,  WAIT-A-MINUTE,  AND  ER —  .  151 

IN  DEFENSE  OF  CHILDREN 153 

LIKES  AND  DISLIKES 154 

THE  ORGAN-GRINDER'S  MONKEY     ....  155 

COMMANDMENTS  FOR  PARTIES 156 

"WHEN    Music,    HEAVENLY    MAID,    WAS 

YOUNG" 158 

A  SECRET  SOCIETY 160 

[xii] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  MERRY-GO-ROUND 162 

THE  SKEPTIC 164 

THE  DOLLY'S  REFORM 165 

TWELFTHNIGHT    DlRGE l6/ 

THE  LITTLE  GIRL  UP-STAIRS 169 

TO  THE  LITTLEST  OF  ALL 

To  THE  LITTLEST  OF  ALL 173 

LALAGE 174 

TWENTY 176 

PIPES  OF  PAN 177 

COME  BACK! 178 

DESIGN 180 

SERENADE  TO  VIDA 181 

COMRADES 183 

BURMESE  LOVE-SONG 185 

OLD  WELSH  DOOR  VERSE 186 

AT  NUMBER  ELEVEN 187 

HOUSE  BLESSING       189 

TRAIL  AND  ROAD 190 

FAUNA  AND  FLORA 

HOMES 193 

MARCH  MANY-WEATHERS 195 

How  THE  BIRDS  CAME 196 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


FOLK  RHYMES 198 

MIKKO  THE  SQUIRREL ,     .     .  199 

PUSSY-WILLOWS 202 

THE  CHIPMUNK 203 

COLUMBINES 206 

WREN-HOUSE  TO  LET 207 

THE  WICKED  W-REN 208 

THE  WILDWOOD  LOON 209 

THE  HOME-BUILDERS:    A  BIRDOLOGUE     .     .  211 

THE  BALTIMORE  ORIOLE 215 

TULIPS 218 

How  THE  FEUD  STARTED 220 

THE  DAISY 223 

THE  BELTED  KINGFISHER 224 

THE  FLOUNDER 226 

ROBIN'S  WHEAT 229 

SONG  OF  THE  GORSE 232 

WlSKEDJAK   THE    JAY 233 

OCTOBER 235 

THE  ORCHARD  WOODCHUCK 236 

CHRYSANTHEMUMS 238 

MY  GUIDE'S  FABLE 239 

A  WINTER  CRICKET 242 

A  FOREST  CHRISTMAS 243 

THE  INDIAN'S  CALENDAR 244 

A  FIELD  HOSPITAL 247 

f  xiv  1 


CONTENTS 
ALL-OUT-DOORS 

PAGE 

THE  HOME  WIND 251 

A  NOTE  TO  A  GUIDE 253 

WHEN  THE  DEER  COME  DOWN  TO  DRINK    .  255 

MOCCASINS 257 

CANOE  TRAILS 258 

WASHINGTON  AT  TWENTY-ONE 260 

IN  SEARCH  OF  A  LAKE 262 

NOBUDDY 264 

ST.  ANTHONY'S  MISSAL 266 

THE  WOOD-BABY 267 

THE  STRANGER 268 

THE  RETURN 270 

"ALL'S  WELL" 271 

LITTLE  HOMES  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS     ...  273 

SONG  OF  THE  FIRST  FURROW 275 

THE  HARVEST-LINE 278 

IN  PRAISE  OF  APPLE-TREES 280 

NEPERHAN 282 

SKATING  TO  ALBANY 283 

BREAKING  CAMP 285 

L' ENVOI:     HlLLS 287 


[xv] 


FOLKS    AND    THINGS 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  SPECIES 

THE  great  god  Mumbo  Jumbo, 

Big  chief,  or  "Bwana  Tumbo" 
In  Africa,  evolved, — no  matter  when, — 

Some  anthropoidal  creatures 

Alike  in  form  and  features, 

Yet    some  of  them    were    Monkeys,    some    were 
Men. 

So  all  the  lake  and  wood  gods, 
Both  naughty  gods  and  good  gods 

And  fetishes  of  high  and  low  degree, 
Protested,  "Mighty  Brother, 
We  can't  tell  which  from  t'other!" 

But  Mumbo  Jumbo  chuckled,  "Wait  and  see!" 

He  next,  with  shrewd  intentions, 
Produced  some  quaint  inventions 
[3] 


about  the  hills  and  dales- 
Contraptions  lithe  and  sightly 
That  dictionaries  brightly 
Describe  as  "caudal  processes,"  or  "tails." 

The  Creatures,  who,  as  stated, 

Had  lately  been  created, 
Adopted  lives  on  wholly  different  planes. 

With  High  Ambition  fired, 

One  half  of  them  Aspired; 
They  scorned  those  foolish  Tails  and  used  thi 
Brains. 

They  spent  their  time  in  fighting, 

In  art,  and  picture-writing, 
In  bungling  things  and  trying  them  again, 

In  liking  and  in  loathing, 

In  making  love  and  clothing, 
In  doing  all  they  could, — so  thes^  were  Men. 

The  other  half  were  sportive; 
With  enterprise  abortive 

[4] 


They  pilfered  nuts  and  ran  away  and  hid; 
They  gamboled,  frisked,  and  chattered 
Of  Things  that  Hardly  Mattered, 

And  idly  mocked  what  other  people  did. 


Now,  one  of  these,  espying 

A  Tail, — the  edifying 
Device  of  Mumbo  Jumbo, — on  a  thorn, 

Purloined  it,  wagged  it,  switched  it, 

And  ultimately  hitched  it 
Behind  himself — where  tails  are  being  worn. 


Then  all  his  futile  nation 

In  eager  imitation 
With  tails  bedecked  their  persons,  great  and  small. 

'Twas  lots  of  fun  to  flop  them; 

But  when  they  tried  to  drop  them, 
They  found  they  couldn't  get  them  off  at  all! 


Those  tails,  assumed  so  lightly, 
Are  fastened  on  more  tightly 


Than  hatchet-heads  are  fitted  onto  helves; 
And  that's  what  makes  them  Monkeys — 
Which  serves  'em  right,  the  donkeys! 

For  having  made  such  monkeys  of  themselves 


[6] 


SURVIVAL  OF  THE  FITTEST 

OH,  the  Witty  Girl  is  mighty  pert  and  clever, 
But  the  Pretty  Girl  is  a  thing  of  joy  forever. 

Oh,  the  Witty  Girl  is  never  dull  or  prosy, 

But  the  Pretty  Girl  is  fresh  and  sweet  and  cosy. 

Oh,  the  Witty  Girl  in  talk  may  be  a  winner, 
But  the  Pretty  Girl  gets  taken  out  for  dinner! 


71 


THE    CURSE    OF    THE    ANTIQUE 

MY  friends  the  Van  Buzzens  have  millions  to  spare; 
They  live  to  the  northward  of  Washington  Square; 
Their  chastely  magnificent,  sumptuous  home 
(Or,  rather,  their  mansion) — from  cellar  to  dome 

Is  filled  to  repletion 

With  things  that  are  Grecian 

And  Early  Venetian 
(Or  seemingly  so), 

And  Late  Jacobean 

And  Middle  Pompeian 

And  Aramathean 
For  all  that  I  know. 


The  panels,  the  ceilings,  the  elegant  doors, 
Are  Louis — some  Louis, — oh,  Seize  or  Quatorze; 
And  down  in  the  kitchen  the  skillets  and  pans 
Are  some  other  Louis, — conceivably,  Quinze; 
[8] 


While  tables  on  gate-legs 
(Those  movable  eight-legs), 
Or  highly  ornate  legs 

That  martyr  your  knees, 
And  chairs  upon  scroll-legs 
Or  neat  cabrio/<?-legs 
(The  French  word  for  "bowlegs") 

Are  thicker  than  peas. 

Miranda  Van  Buzzen,  a  Priestess  apart, 
The  Heiress  of  All  the  Ages  of  Art, 
Is  proud  of  old  tapestries  hanging  in  shreds, 
Of  highboys  and  lowboys  and  canopied  beds, 

Of  caddies  and  kettles 

In  various  metals, 

Of  dressers  and  settles 
And  benches  and  thrones, 

Of  boxes  for  laces, 

Of  porcelain  vases, 

And  coffers  and  cases 
By  Inigo  Jones. 

But  Abel  Van  Buzzen  is  sick  unto  death, 
He  lately  confided,  though  under  his  breath 
[91 


Of  "all  this  nonsensical  'Period'  bluff— 
The  Chippendale-Heppelwhite-Sheraton  stuff!" 

"I'll  furnish  my  study 

As  snug  as  a  cuddy, 

With  no  fuddy-duddy 
Of  gimcracks!"  said  he; 

"And  nothing  that's  'Classic' 

Or  Upper  Jurassic 

Or  utter  jack-assic! — 
Plain  comfort  for  me!" 

He  went  to  a  dealer  in  Crotchets  and  Whims, 
Impressive  in  glasses  with  tortoise-shell  rims, 
And  told  him,  "I  want  a  Responsible  Chair; 
It  needn't  be  something  seductively  rare 
By  any  old  masters 
On  fluted  pilasters, 
But  Comfort  on  Casters — 

A  cushioned  retreat; 
And  I  want  a  table, 
Whatever  the  label, 
Sufficiently  stable 

To  hold  up  my  feet!" 
[10] 


The  Expert  replied  in  a  delicate  voice, 
"Now,  here  is  an  Object  exceedingly  choice — 
A    chair    with    a    wheel-back     and     single-curve 

arms; 

The  spatulate  feet  are  the  least  of  its  charms. 
We  bought  it  from  Madam 
McAdam  of  Haddam— 
A  Genuine  Adam! — 

Oh,  don't  be  misled! 
The  marks  that  you  term  'holes' 
Are  Guaranteed  Worm-holes!"— 
"I  think  they  are  germ-holes!" 
Quoth  Abel,  and  fled. 

The    next    Connoisseur    whom    he    happened    to 

seek 
Was    strong    for    the    Gothic    with     touches    of 

Greek, 

For  chairs  that  were  stiffer  than  pokers  and  starch 
And  built  like  cathedrals  with  pillar  and  arch. 
"Observe  the  acanthus, 
The  drooping  ailanthus, 
The  rich  polyanthus 


And  tendril  design 
With  nothing  aborted!" 
The  Person  exhorted. 
But  Abel  retorted, 

"Not  any  in  mine!" 

Another  remarkably  talented  man 

Was  all  for  the  colorful  mode  of  Queen  Anne — 

For  marquetry  tables  and  arm-chairs  with  wings; 

Another,  for  ormolu  Empire  things. 
Still  others  orated 
On  chairs  that  were  mated 
With  feet  that  were  plated 

Or  turned  like  a  cup 
And  legs  that  were  twisted; 
While  many  insisted 
On  styles  that  existed 
When  Rome  was  a  pup. 

They  gabbled  of  Flemish,  Byzantine,  Grotesquej 
Hogarthian,  Tudor,  Baroque,  Arabesque, 
Of  cedar  and  ebony  artfully  wrought, 
Of  Indian  teak,  and  mahogany  brought 

[12] 


From  far  Orinoco 
And  carved  in  rococo. 
They  drove  him  quite  loco, 

Or  nearly  to  drink, 
With  talk  of  mosaic — 
Not  wholly  archaic, 
But  done  in  Passaic, 

New  Jersey,  I  think. 


Completely  bewildered  and  ready  to  drop, 

He  staggered  away  to  a  Furniture  Shop; 

And    •»  hat    should    he    see    in    that    wonderful 

place 

But  tables  of  dignity,  substance  and  grace, 
And  arm-chairs,  by  gracious! 
Invitingly  spacious, 
Superbly  capacious 

And,  Heaven  be  praised! 
Divinely  upholstered, 
Becushioned  and  bolstered' 
His  buffeted  soul  stirred 
With  joy  as  he  gazed. 


"Magician  of  Furniture  1"  Abel  exclaimed, 
"What  date  are  these  marvels,  and  how  are  they 

named?" 

The  Artist  replied,  with  a  blush  on  his  cheek, 
"They  haven't  been  christened;  we  made  'em  last 
week. 

We  dare  not  assign  'em 
A  place,  nor  define  'em; 
We  only  design  'em 

The  best  that  we  can." 
"Oh,  send  me  four  dozen, 
Mike  Angelo's  cousin!" 
Cried  Abel  Van  Buzzen, 
"And  hurry  the  van!" 

The  House  of  Van  Buzzen  is  splendidly  cold 
And  crammed  with  rare  treasures  that  ought  to  be 

sold; 

Its  satinwrood  sideboards  are  guiltless  of  dust; 
Its  stately  perfections  deserve  to  be  mussed. 
But  up  in  the  attic, 
A  place  democratic, 
Is  Abel's  ecstatic 
[14] 


Resort  of  the  blest, 
With  chairs  you  can  prose  in 
And  smoke  and  repose  in 
And  dreamily  doze  in, — 

Oases  of  Rest! 


X 


ELEGY 


THE  jackals  prowl,  the  serpents  hiss 

In<what  was  once  Persepolis. 

Proud  Babylon  is  but  a  trace 

Upon  the  desert's  dusty  face. 

The  topless  towers  of  Ilium 

Are  ashes.     Judah's  harp  is  dumb. 

The  fleets  of  Nineveh  and  Tyre 

Are  down  with  Davy  Jones,  Esquire 

And  all  the  oligarchies,  kings, 

And  potentates  that  ruled  these  things 

Are  gone!    But  cheer  up;   don't  be  sad; 

Think  what  a  lovely  time  they  had! 


16] 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  TRUE  SPORTSMAN 

SINCE  Walton  first  in  sport  began 

To  lure  the  scaly  prey, 
Was  ever  any  Fisherman 

To  match  with  Albert  Hay? 

The  Weakish  weep  and  wring  their  fins, 

The  Porgies'  tails  grow  cold, 
The  Herring  shiver  in  their  tins 

When  Albert's  name  is  told! 

For  skilled  was  he  in  wiles  to  take 

The  Salmon  fierce  and  free, 
The  Muskallonge  that  haunt  the  lake, 

The  Cod  that  rove  the  sea. 

And  every  port  where  fish  abound 

He  knew  surpassing  well: 
He  knew  Setauket-by-the-Sound 
And  Gloucester  by  the  smell. 
2  I 


He  knew  Aroostook,  by  the  by, 

And  went  there  by  the  train, 
For  most  he  loved  to  cast  the  fly 

Upon  the  streams  of  Maine. 

The  bamboo  rod,  his  joy  and  pride, 

Was  supple  as  a  lash; 
His  line  was  all  of  silk,  his  Guide 

Was  Tom  of  Allagash. 

He  cast  four  flies  of  feathered  wing 

And  lucent  single  snell — 
"Professor,"  "Ibis,"  "Grizzly  King," 

And  "  Parmachenee  Belle." 

But  even  at  the  seventh  cast 

When  that  his  leader  sunk, 
The  hooks  were  holden  hard  and  fast 

Beneath  a  mossy  trunk. 

He  tugged  the  line  from  side  to  side, 

He  bent  the  rod  in  vain. 
"Yay!     Play  'im,  Albert!"  yelled  the  Guide, 

"Ye've  caught  the  State  o'  Maine!" 
[18] 


What  bard  shall  sing,  in  years  to  come, 

That  wondrous  scene  aright! 
All  Nature  stood  aghast  and  dumb 

To  view  that  awesome  fight. 

The  Umbazooksus  ran  up-hill; 

Unwonted  tremors  shook 
Thy  lake  of  waters  clear  and  still, 

Chemquasabamticook ! 

Katahdin  veiled  his  summit  proud; 

Umbagog  lost  its  gleam, 
And  Fear  descended  like  a  cloud 

On  Ripogenus  Stream. 

While  Ambajejus  (lovely  spot!) 

And  more  of  equal  claims 
Were  all  so  scared  they  clean  forgot 

The  way  to  spell  their  names! 

Cried  Tom  the  Guide,  "Ye've  met  y're  match 

At  last,  as  sure  as  Sin!" 
But  Albert  sternly  played  his  catch 

And  grimly  reeled  it  in. 

[19] 


But  when  he  viewed  the  weakening  prize 

He  let  his  line  go  slack: 
"The  State  of  Maine  is  undersize," 

Quoth  he.     "We'll  throw  it  back! 

"Oh,  were  the  State  of  Texas  there, 

Or  even  Arkansaw — 
Yea,  though  my  line  were  maiden-hair, 

My  rod  were  barley-straw — 

"I  should  have  fought  that  worthy  foe 
With  all  my  skill  and  strength; 

But  who  would  catch  a  State  below 
The  legal  breadth  and  length !" 

So  back  he  came  with  empty  creel 

And  told  his  tale  to  me. 
And  when,  I  ask,  will  Time  reveal 

A  truer  Sport  than  he? 


[  20 


BALLADE  OF  SPORT 

OH  for  the  games  of  a  younger  day! 

Indoor  and  outdoor,  I  played  them  all; 
Baseball  and  football,  perchance  croquet; 

Hockey  in  winter,  lacrosse  in  fall. 

Various  weapons  that  drive  the  ball 
Strengthened  my  arms  in  the  golden  Past. 

Tell  me!    O  freckle-faced  urchin  small, 
Must  I  be  captive  to  Golf,  at  last? 


Tennis  on  asphalt  or  turf  or  clay, 

Rowing,  or  sailing  the  white-winged  yawl, 

Bowling  along  on  the  smooth  highway, 
Climbing  the  scarp  of  the  mountain  wall, 
Footing  the  dance  in  the  festal  hall, 

Fighting  the  waves  and  the  stormy  blast, — 
Such  were  the  pleasures  I  now  recall. 

Must  I  be  captive  to  Golf,  at  last? 

[21] 


Here  is  a  bag  o'  the  canvas  gray, 

Crowded  with  clubs — and  their  names  appall! 
"Niblick"  and  "Putter"  and  "Brassie"— they 

Look  like  the  arms  of  an  ancient  Gaul. 

Might  not  a  man  that  is  stout  and  tall 
View  such  burglarious  tools  aghast? 

Must  I  resign  me  to  these,  withal? 
Must  I  be  captive  to  Golf,  at  last? 

Envoi 

Caddie!     Stop  swinging  that  cross-eyed  maul! 

Answer,  as  Samuel  from  the  Vast 
Answered,  prophetic,  the  cry  of  Saul: 

"Must  I  be  captive  to  Golf,  at  last?" 


[22] 


THE  CONQUEROR 

AN   ALGONQUIN    LEGEND 

GLUSKAP  the  Mighty  was  haughty  and  vain, 
Gluskap  the  Mighty  was  proud; 

Painted  and  feathered,  he  danced  on  the  plain 
Chanting  his  praises  aloud: 

"Ah,  who  that  is  mortal  dare  face  me,  defiant? 

My  war-club  has  shattered  the  stone-headed  giant; 

The  storm-bird  and  thunder-bird  fly  me  like  spar 
rows; 

The  flame-breathing  serpents  are  pierced  by  my 
arrows ; 

And  dead  lie  the  ghouls  where  the  waterfall  pitches; 

Aye,  dead  are  the  wizards  and  dead  are  the 
witches; 

Unconquered,  unchallenged,  I  fear  no  disaster, 

And  no  one  is  left  for  my  Greatness  to  master!" 


Ahpet  the  Woman  was  lovely  and  wise, 

Ahpet  the  Woman  was  gay; 
Singing,  she  laughed  in  the  Warrior's  eyes, 

Mocking  his  valorous  lay: 

"Yes,  mighty  is  Gluskap!  and  none  may  withstand 
him 

But  Wahsis,  brave  Wahsis: — for  who  shall  com 
mand  him? 

O  Wahsis  the  Fearless!    All  women  adore  him; 

The  Chiefs  of  the  Turtle  are  humble  before 
him; 

The  hunters  and  warriors  bring  him  their  treasure, 

They  sing  for  his  comfort,  they  dance  for  his 
pleasure. 

Then  vex  not  his  patience,  0  Gluskap  the  Peer 
less, 

For  dread  is  the  anger  of  Wahsis  the  Fearless!" 

Gluskap  the  Mighty  was  dreadful  in  wrath; 

Gluskap  was  hurt  in  his  pride. 
"Show  me,"  he  shouted,  "my  warrior-path! 

Where  may  this  Wahsis  abide?" 

[24] 


Said  Ahpet  the  Woman,  the  subtly  deluding, 
"He  sits  in  the  wigwam,  complacently  brooding 
What    magic    I    know   not; — but   leave   him    un 
troubled; 

For  griefs  done  to  Wahsis  are  paid  back  redoubled !" 
But  Gluskap  was  haughty;  her  warning  he  flouted; 
His  war-club  he  brandished,  his  war-cry  he  shouted, 
He  flung  back  the  deerskin,  that  chief  undefeated, 
And  entered  the  wigwam  where  Wahsis  was  seated. 

Wahsis  the  Fearless  was  little  and  round. 

Wahsis  was  sweet  as  a  plum. 
Dimpled  and  chubby,  he  sat  on  the  ground 

Sucking  his  mite  of  a  thumb. 

So  Gluskap,  diverted  from  methods  severer, 
Smiled   sweetly  on   Wahsis   and   bade   him   come 

nearer. 

And  Wahsis,  betraying  no  trace  of  resentment, 
Remained  in  his  place  with  a  smile  of  contentment. 
'Come  hither!"  called  Gluskap  with  flutings  and 

cooings 
That  thrushes  and  tanagers  use  in  their  wooings. 


"Come  hither!"  he  ordered,   while,  leaping   and 

prancing, 
He  sought  to  allure  him  with  gambols  entrancing 

Wahsis  the  Fearless,  with  eyes  like  a  fawn's 

Gazing  on  Gluskap  the  Lord, 
Rounded  his  mouth  in  the  smallest  of  yawns; — 

Wahsis  the  Fearless  was  bored. 

How  wrathful  was  Gluskap  the  Mighty  Magician 
"This  imp  of  the  forest  refuse  me  submission? 
My  power  shall  tame  him!"— with  menaces  franti< 
He  roared  like  the  storm  in  the  woods  of  Me 

gantic. 

Then,  pacing  the  Witch  Dance  in  grisly  gyration 
With  awful  enchantments  and  weird  imprecation 
He  bellowed,  while  eddying  faster  and  faster, 
"Ho!  crawl  to  me,  Wahsis,  and  own  me  as  Master!' 

Wahsis  the  Fearless,  Wahsis  the  Small, 

(Cause  he  undoubtedly  had), 
Lifted  his  voice  in  a  terrible  squall! 

Wahsis  the  Fearless  was  mad. 

[26] 


Who  hears  it  and  knows  not  a  sinking  sensation? — 
The  war-cry  of  Wahsis,  that  wild  ululation! 
It  shrilled  like  the  shriek  of  the  demons  of  slaughter! 
The   fierce   heart   of  Gluskap   grew  weaker  than 

water. 
He  quailed  before  Wahsis,  he  cringed  to  appease 

him; 
No  more  would  he  vex  him!     No  more  would  he 

tease  him! 

But  higher  the  soul-rending  clamor  resounded, 
Till  forth  fled  great  Gluskap,  defeated,  confounded ! 

Wahsis  the  Fearless  a  moment  was  dumb. 

Wahsis  the  Victor  withdrew, 
Gurgling  in  triumph,  his  mite  of  a  thumb. 

Wahsis  the  Baby  said,  "Goo!" 


27 


TEMPERAMENT 

WHEN  I  am  composing  a  lyric, 
Or  Vida's  composing  a  sock, 

The  kindliest-meant  panegyric 
Obtrudes  with  a  terrible  shock. 

Remarks,  be  they  never  so  gentle, 
Had  better,  far  better,  be  curbed; 

We're  both  of  us  Temperamental, 
And  Genius  must  not  be  disturbed. 

When,  gripped  in  the  strife  of  creation, 
The  brain  and  the  soul  are  aflame, 

The  Thing  that  they  call  "Conversation" 
Is — something  too  awful  to  name! 

And  sorrow  betide  the  satiric 
Intruder  who  ventures  to  mock 

When  I  am  composing  a  lyric, 
Or  Vida's  composing  a  sock! 

[28] 


THE  MOCCASINS 

IT  was  the  gallant  Eagle  Claw,  a  warrior  of  the 

Sioux, 
That  loved  the  sprightly  Firefly,  but  lacked  the 

heart  to  woo. 

He   saw   her  take   her  water-pail,   on   household 

duties  bent; 
He   donned   his   ragged   moccasins,   and   followed 

where  she  went. 

And  down  beside  the  rivulet,  despite  a  mild  demur, 
He  seized  and  filled  the  water-pail  and  carried  it 
for  her. 

She  smiled  at  him,  and  said  to  him,  with  roguish 

tone  and  sweet, 
"What  dreadful,  ragged  moccasins  are  those  upon 

your  feet!" 

[29] 


"Within  my  lodge  is  none,"  he  said,  "to  make  them 

new  for  me!" 
She    looked    upon    the    moccasins    and    laughed, 

"There  ought  to  be!" 

"But  who  would  mend  the  moccasins  for  such  as 

I?"  he  sighed; 
"I  could  not  find  her  anywhere!"    She  murmured, 

"Have  you  tried?" 

"Oh,  will  you  mend  my  moccasins?"  he  begged, 

with  longing  thrill. 
She  looked   upon   the   moccasins   and   whispered, 

"Yes,  I  will!" 

And  up  the  bank  and  through  the  grove  and  toward 

the  lodge-fire's  gleam, 
A  double  trail  of  moccasins  is  leading  from  the 

stream. 


130] 


THE  GREAT  TYRANNOSAURUS 

A   FOSSILIFEROUS    FABLE 

THE  Great  Tyrannosaurus 

Lived  centuries  ago; 
Through  marshes  wet  and  porous 

He  rambled  to  and  fro. 

The  most  tremendous  Lizard 
That  ever  browsed  on  meat, 

His  length  from  A  to  Izzard 
Was  forty-seven  feet. 

The  Great  Tyrannosaurus 

In  habitude  was  not 
What  one  would  call  decorous — 

He  ate  an  awful  lot. 

Lamellibranchs  in  sixes, 

Iguanodons  to  spare 
And  Archaeopteryxes 

Comprised  his  bill  of  fare. 


The  Great  Tyrannosaurus 
Of  all  the  world  was  king; 

With  trumpetings  sonorous 
He  swallowed  everything. 

When  everything  was  swallowed 
Beneath  the  azure  sky, 

What  naturally  followed? — 
The  Creature  had  to  die. 

The  Great  Tyrannosaurus, 
That  was  so  blithe  and  free, 

Hath  passed  away  before  us; 
Then  learn  from  him  and  me: 

This  earth  can  never  nourish 

An  appetite  like  his; 
So,  if  you  hope  to  flourish, 

Don't  gobble  all  there  is! 


TOBACCO 

(A  NAVAJO  LEGEND) 

NICOTA,  the  pearl  of  a  Navajo  clan, 

The  daughter  of  Logan,  the  medicine-man, 

Was  beautiful,  graceful,  and  clever; 
Yet,  somehow,  the  hunters  and  warriors  paid 
That  super-superlative  Indian  maid 

No  sort  of  attention  whatever. 

They'd  paint  up  their  faces  and  hurry  to  woo 
Some  other  who  hadn't  the  worth  of  a  Sioux 

Or  even  a  dotless  iota. 

In  blankets  of  scarlet  and  feather-trimmed  suits 
They'd  go  serenading  with  tom-toms  and  flutes, 

But  nobody  called  on  Nicota. 

"Oh,  Father!"  the  maiden  protested,  in  grief, 
"  There  isn't  a  brave  nor  there  isn't  a  chief 
3  [33] 


But  scorns  me  or  takes  me  for  granted. 
So,  bury  me,  bury  me  deep,  that  the  men 
Shall  miss  me  and,  anyhow,  notice  me,  then. 

I  think  I  should  like  to  be  planted." 

He  buried  her  deep.     With  a  wonderful  charm 
He  laid  her  to  sleep  with  her  head  on  her  arm 

Where  nothing  of  ill  might  befall  her; 
To  rest  in  the  grave  till  the  leaf-buds  should  break, 
Till  twitter  of  bluebirds  should  bid  her  awake, 

And  voices  of  springtime  should  call  her. 

They  called  her:   She  rose  from  her  grave-mound, 

arrayed 
In  leaves  that  were  sweet  as  the  flowers  that  swayed 

Above  her  like  plumes  on  a  shako. 
By  thousands  the  hunters  and  warriors  came, 
Enamoured,  to  whisper  her  new-given  name, 

The  magical  name  of  "Tobacco"! 

How    precious    her    fragrance,    how    subtle    her 

spell, 

How  gentle  yet  potent  her  art  to  compel 
[34] 


The  moccasined  throng  to  adore  her! 
Her  worshipers  treasured  the  leaves  of  her  gown — 
The    leaves    she    discarded    when    withered    and 
brown — 

And  burned  them  in  homage  before  her. 

Her  incense  pervading  each  wandering  breeze, 
What  sovereign  princess  may  boast  devotees 

So  numerous,  constant,  and  zealous! 
And  maidens  who  pester  their  swains  to  abjure 
Her  soothing  aroma,  her  kindly  allure, 

Are  merely  unspeakably  jealous! 


[35 


THE  SAVAGE 

THE  Savage  has  the  best  of  it 
In  Africa  or  west  of  it! 

Whatever  meat 

He  finds  to  eat, 
His  stomach  can  digest  of  it. 

His  conscience  isn't  troublesome; 
Of  joy  he  has  a  double  sum; 

Unvexed  by  frills 

And  social  ills, 
His  mirth  is  free  and  bubblesome. 


No  business  ever  hurries  him; 
And  when  a  varlet  worries  him 

He  takes  a  club 

And  smacks  the  cub, 
Then  fricassees  or  curries  him. 

[36] 


His  fancy  weaves  him  airy  talcs 
Of  monkey-folk  with  hairy  tails; 

He  never  saw 

A  play  by  Shaw, 
Nor  read  Dunsany's  fairy-tales. 

The  Savage  has  the  best  of  it; 
The  world — he  is  possessed  of  it! 

He  loves  and  loafs 

And  laughs  at  oafs 
Like  us,  who  spoil  the  zest  of  it. 

I  want  my  wisdom  frivolized, 
My  faith  and  creed  unsnivelized, 

And  life  a  sort 

Of  sport — in  short, 
I  wish  I  wasn't  civilized! 


[37 


JUNE 

WRAP  me  up  in  sunshine, 
Bed  me  down  in  clover, 
Tell  Chewink 
And  Bobolink 

To  sing  a  gladder  tune; 

Hide  the  hedge  in  roses 
Heaped  and  spilling  over, 
Thrill  with  mirth 
The  heart  of  Earth 

That  I  may  know  'tis  June! 


[38] 


THE  MAIDEN  WHO  TOLD 

THE  brook  that  comes  dancing  through  forest  and 

marsh 

Where  thrushes  are  tuneful  or  grackles  are  harsh, 
Still  babbling  of  secrets  that  nobody  hears, 
Though     pitcher-plants     listen     with     wide-open 

ears, — 

When  young  were  the  beeches  as  now  they  are  old, 
That  garrulous  brook  was  a  Maiden  Who  Told! 

By  moss-rooted  bunchberries,  ruddy  and  ripe, 

And  waxen  elf-candles  of  Indian  pipe, 

The    chipmunk    steals    down    of    the    waters    to 

drink, 
And    so    does    the    partridge,    and    so    does    the 

mink; 
But   none   of  them    dream   that   the   rill   of  the 

wold, 

Their  crystalline  brook,  is  a  Maiden  Who  Told. 
[39J 


She  told;  and  you  needn't  be  asking  me,  whai 
She  told,  and  she  shouldn't; — the  rest  is  forgo 
And  they  that  are  seeking  may  guess  for  themselve 
Who  changed  her  with  magic,  the  witches  or  elve: 
For  speech  may  be  silver,  but  silence  is  gold. 
The  chattering  brook  is  the  Maiden  Who  Tolc 


[40] 


A  LAUNDRY  LAY 

WHEN  I  was  young  and  lived  by  rime, 

A  garret  gave  me  sheltering; 
'Twas  bitter  cold  in  winter-time, 

In  August  it  was  sweltering. 

Upon  my  cuff  I  scrawled,  one  day, 
A  song  of  love,  unmatchable! 

My  cuffs  were  then,  I  blush  to  say, 
The  kind  they  call  "detachable." 

A  stupid  slavey  seized  the  cuff 

While  round  my  garret  maundering, 

And  sent  it  off  with  other  stuff — 
She  thought  it  needed  laundering! 

But  when  my  cuff,  transported,  came 
Where  clothes  are  made  immaculate, 

The  maids,  who  read  my  words  of  flame, 
Did  nothing  but  ejaculate: 

[41] 


"Seraphic!"     "Ravishing!"     "Divine!" 
"Stupendous!"   "Perfect!"   "Glorious!" 

"Sublime!"   "Bewitching!"   "Superfine!" 
"Extremely  meritorious!" 

The  blue-eyed  nymph  that  owned  the  shop— 

A  girl  to  lose  your  poise  about- 
Exclaimed,  "Why  does  the  washing  stop, 
And  what  is  all  this  noise  about?" 

Yet,  having  scanned  the  lines  I  wrote, 

Then  cried  the  fair  divinity, 
"This  troubadour  of  perfect  note 

I  know  is  my  Affinity!" 

So  now  our  joint  establishment 

Judiciously  and  seasonably 
Will  wash  your  cuff  for  half-a-cent, 

Your  other  things  as  reasonably. 


42 


THE  SUPERSTITIOUS  GHOST 

TM  such  a  quiet  little  ghost, 

Demure  and  inoffensive; 
The  other  spirits  say  I'm  most 

Absurdly  apprehensive. 

Through  all  the  merry  hours  of  night 

I'm  uniformly  cheerful; 
I  love  the  dark,  but  in  the  light, 

I  own,  I'm  rather  fearful. 

Each  dawn  I  cower  down  in  bed, 
In  every  brightness  seeing 

That  weird,  uncanny  form  of  dread- 
An  awful  Human  Being! 

Of  course  I'm  told  they  can't  exist, 
That  Nature  would  not  let  them; 

But  Willy  Spook,  the  Humanist, 
Declares  that  he  has  met  them! 

[43] 


He  says  they  do  not  glide  like  us, 

But  walk  in  eerie  paces; 
They're  solid,  not  diaphanous, 

With  arms!  and  legs!  !  and  faces!  !  ! 

And  some  are  beggars,  some  are  kings, 
Some  have  and  some  are  wanting; 

They  squander  time  in  doing  things 
Instead  of  simply  haunting. 

They  talk  of  "art,"  the  horrid  crew, 
And  things  they  call  "ambitions." — 

Oh  yes,  I  know  as  well  as  you 
They're  only  superstitions. 

But  should  the  dreadful  day  arrive 
When,  starting  up,  I  see  one, 

I'm  sure  'twill  scare  me  quite  alive; 
And  then — oh,  then  I'll  be  one! 


[44] 


THE  SAND  WITCH  * 


As  Elmer  Brown,  of  Gotham  Town,  strolled  forth 

to  take  the  Air 
On  Coney's  Beach  of  wide  Renown,  a  Sand  Witch 

met  him  there. 
She  wore  a  crimson  Bathing-dress,  her  Cheek  was 

touched  with  Tan, 
She  had  the  fairy  Lissomnesse  of  Ann-ette  Kell-er- 

mann. 
She  looked  up,  she  looked  down,  soe  comelie  to 

behold, 

And  syne  she  smiled  on  Elmer  Brown — but  Elmer 
Brown  was  cold! 


"Dost  thou  not  love,  fair  Sir,"  she  said,  "to  hear 
the  Billows  roar? — 

To  see  the  Lovers,  newly-wed,  that  walk  the  sound 
ing  Shore? — 

[45] 


The  Maids  that  laugh  in  merrie  Peals,  the  Lads 

that  play  at  Ball? — 
The  Wealthie  Folk  in  Chairs  with  Wheels,  the  Poor 

in  none  at  all? — 
These  golden  Sands  that  Infant  Bands  doe  digg  as 

is  their  Wont?" 
In  peevish  Pride  the  Youth  replied  full  churlishlie, 

"I  don't!" 


"Oh,  come,"  the  Siren  sang,  "with  me,  and  let  us 
gailie  float 

Afar   upon   the   bounding    Sea   within   the   little 
Boat; 

Or  view  the  Freaks  in  yonder  Place  which  Scien 
tists  indorse; 

Or  ride  the  thrilling  Steeple  Chase  astride  the  Hob- 
bie  Horse! 

And  taste  the  spicie  Sausage  Roll  and  eke  the 
Lemon  Pie, 

And  quaff  the  Pop  that  cheers  the  Soul!"  The  Lout 
rejoined,  "Not  I!" 

[46] 


Now  mark  ye  all  what  Ills  befall  the  gloomie  Childe 

of  Strife 
Who  doth  disdaine  in  bitter  Vein  the  precious  Joys 

of  Life! 
For  wroth  the  lovelie  Sand  Witch  grew,  that  was 

as  is  the  Lamb; 
She    spurned    him    with    her    Bathing  -  shoe    and 

changed  him  to  a  Clam! 
Two  crustie  Shells  his  Person  hid — alack,  the  sorrie 

Plight! 
She  changed  him  to  a  Clam,  she  did! — which  served 

of  him  right! 


[47] 


HEROES 

OH,  the  Col.  or  the  Maj.  or  the  Lieut. 

Or  the  Gen.  or  the  Adj.  or  the  Cap. 
May  be  proud  of  the  spur  on  his  boot, 

Of  his  badge  and  his  braid  and  his  strap, 
Of  his  coat  that  is  neat  and  is  right, 

Of  his  look  that  is  brisk  and  alive; 
But  the  men  who  will  count  in  a  fight 

Are  the  Serj.  and  the  Corp.  and  the  Priv. 

Oh,  the  Cap.  and  the  Adj.  and  the  Gen.! 

Oh,  the  Lieut,  and  the  Col.  and  the  Maj.! 
They  will  live  through  the  might  of  the  pen, 

They  will  shine  in  the  lore  of  the  age, 
In  the  tale  of  the  war  that  is  won, 

In  the  song  of  the  trench  and  the  charge; 
But  the  men  who  will  do  what  is  done 

Are  the  Priv.  and  the  Corp.  and  the  Serj. 


A  BAZAAR   BALLAD 

A  SOLDIER  young  and  brave  was  he 

That  sought  the  big  Bazaar; 
A  Maiden  sweet  and  fair  was  she, 

As  Maidens  often  are. 

He  spoke,  in  Whispers  passion-fraught, 

Of  Love  that  could  not  fail; 
She  spoke  (no  Matter  what  she  thought) 

Of  Things  that  were  for  Sale. 

"I  want/'  declared  the  ardent  Youth, 
"The  sweetest  Sweet  of  All!" 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  said;    "the  Candy  Booth 
Is  just  across  the  Hall." 

"A  Rose,"  he  breathed,  "of  Edenglade 

I  seek,  my  life  to  crown!" 
"The  Flower  Stand,"  observed  the  Maid, 

"Is  four  Aisles  farther  down." 
4  [49] 


"Then  be  my  Bride!"  that  Soldier  cried, 
"My  Own,  my  Heart's  Delight!" 

"Engagement  Rings?"  she  softly  sighed; 
"Three  Counters  toward  the  Right!" 


50] 


A  MASCOT 

IN  the  glow  of  their  youth  they  have  come,  and 

they  pass 
With  the  flare  of  the  steel  and  the  blare  of  the 

brass; 

And  the  brave  little  dog,  with  a  brisk  little  wag 
To  his  stump  of  a  tail,  trots  along  by  the  flag 
At   his   post   in   the   ranks   like   the   rest  of  the 

corps, 
For  the  brave  little  dog  is  away  to  the  war. 

"They  will  go!    They  will  go!"  throbs  a  drum  as 

it  nears; 

There's  the  fall  of  a  wail  in  the  roar  of  our  cheers. 
But  the  brave  little  dog  is  as  gay  as  a  lark; 
There  is  joy,  there  is  heart   in   his   brave   little 

bark 

As  he  gambols  behind  or  he  frolics  before, 
For  the  brave  little  dog  is  away  to  the  war. 
[Si] 


He's  away  to  the  war.     There'll  be  need  of  him 

there — 

Of  the  stanch  little  tyke  that's  the  foe  of  despair; 
For  there's  none  that's  so  old  in  the  world,  or  so 

wise, 

But  may  find  a  new  faith  in  the  depth  of  his  eyes, 
And  his  tongue  is  a  balm  to  the  heart  that  is  sore; 
So  the  brave  little  dog  is  away  to  the  war. 

May  the  powers  be  good  to  the  glad  little  elf, 
Who  is  first  for  his  friends  and  is  last  for  himself; 
May  there  still  be  a  bone  for  his  hunger  to  find, 
And  a  pat  on  the  head  from  a  hand  that  is  kind; 
May  the  heaven  of  men  keep  a  wide-open  door 
For  the  brave  little  dog  that's  away  to  the  war! 


[52] 


NOTE   ON   THE   NATURAL   HISTORY   OF 
AIRPLANES 

THE  Airplane  swoops  from  crags  of  cloud 

To  prey  upon  the  Submarine; 
Its  hum  is  rather  rough  and  loud; 

Its  only  drink  is  gasolene. 


Some  Airplanes  wouldn't  heave  a  brick, 
But  ride  the  blue  on  placid  wings, 

While  others  have  a  horrid  trick 

Of  dropping  nasty  bombs  and  things. 


While  one  prefers  to  navigate, 
With  dignity,  the  azure  vault, 

Another  cuts  a  figure  eight 
Or  throws  a  festive  somersault. 

[53] 


They  never  flap  their  wings  and  crow; 

And  sober  Airplanes  quit  the  height 
Of  heaven  when  the  sun  is  low 

To  sleep  in  hangars  overnight. 

Young  bachelor  Airplanes  love  to  roam 
The  Great  White  Way  that  spans  the  sky; 

But  lady  Airplanes  stay  at  home 
And  teach  young  Airplanes  how  to  fly. 


54 


CAMOUFLAGE 

WHAT'S  Camouflage? — The  juggler's  trade; 
Delusion,  glamour,  masquerade; 
The  mummer's  artifice,  designed 
To  make  the  Sense  betray  the  Mind; 
The  tint  of  rouge,  the  scent  that  clings, 
The  curl  that  grew  not  where  it  swings, 
The  touch  that  thrills  the  blood  of  man, 
The  soft,  shy  glance  behind  the  fan; 
The  sweet,  low  laugh  of  badinage — 
That's  Camouflage. 


What's  Camouflage? — A  web  for  flies; 
The  mist  that  blinds  the  lover's  eyes; 
The  dainty  scrap  of  this  or  that 
Which  ransoms  yester-season's  hat; 
The  sauce  that  turns  the  humble  stew 
To  some  delectable  ragout; 
[55] 


The  motor-builder's  happy  scheme 
To  make  the  humble  chariot  seem 
A  car  from  Croesus's  garage — 
That's  Camouflage. 

What's  Camouflage? — The  printed  lure 
That  promises  the  wondrous  cure; 
The  caster's  fly  of  colors  gay, 
The  mining  stock,  the  smooth  toupet, 
The  bluff  that  screens  the  empty  purse 
Or  masks  untidy  prose  as  verse, 
The  veil  of  picturesque  romance 
That  changes  theft  to  High  Finance 
And  treachery  to  Sabotage — 
That's  Camouflage. 

What's  Camouflage? — Oh,  many  things! 
The  pomp  and  pride  of  thrones  and  kings; 
The  gambler's  hope;   the  rosy  wreath 
That  fades  and  leaves  the  thorns  beneath; 
A  wrecker's  light;    the  phosphor  glow 
Some  mocking  star  has  cast  below 

[56] 


To  make  the  eye  of  men  behold 
Their  gold  as  dross,  their  dross  as  gold; 
The  zealot's  vision,  Fame's  mirage — 
That's  Camouflage. 


DIPLOMACY 

THEY  sent  the  King  a  bunch  of  Ultimata; 
The  Messenger  was  non  persona  grata. 

A  second  lot  of  Ulti-Ultimata 

Were  marked  by  certain  manifest  errata. 

A  third,  of  Ulti-Ulti-Ultimata, 
Omitted  several  prime  desiderata. 

Now,  over  his  medulla  oblongata 
That  King  is  buried  under  many  strata 
OfUlti-Ulti-Ulti-Ultimata! 


58] 


COAL 

AFAR  in  the  moist  Carboniferous  time 
I  grew  from  the  Paleozoical  slime 
A  Lepidodendron  with  boughs  on  my  stem, 
And  Lepidostrobuses  grew  upon  them. 
My  roots  in  the  mud  of  the  ages  I  spread 
And  up  to  the  heavens  I  vaunted  my  head; 
I  throve  in  the  heat  of  a  tropical  sun, — 
And  now  I  am  Coal  at  ten  dollars  a  ton! 


Dividing  the  marshes  in  watery  lanes, 
The  tapering  Calamites  billowed  their  manes; 
By  somnolent  rivers  and  shadowy  ponds 
The  tree-ferns  uplifted  their  beckoning  fronds; 
And,  stately  and  tall  in  the  neighboring  wood, 
With  shimmering  cones  the  Dadoxylons  stood; 
Those  goodly  companions  of  whom  I  was  one,- 
And  now  they  are  Coal  at  ten  dollars  a  ton! 
[59] 


Oh,  strange  were  the  wings  in  the  skies  that  I  knew! 
Aye,  strange  were  the  creatures  that  nested  and 

flew. 

And  darkling  and  drear  were  the  waters  beneath 
Where  fierce  Labyrinthodonts  gritted  their  teeth 
And  swift  Xenacanthuses  flashed  on  their  prey! 
They  mocked  us!    I  warned  them,  "Rejoice  while 

ye  may! 

For,  greedy  marauders,  your  day  will  be  done 
When  we  shall  be  Coal  at  ten  dollars  a  ton!" 

Behold!  from  my  bed  on  the  primitive  shale 
How  swiftly  they  raise  me!   The  steeds  of  the  rail 
Are  mine! — yea,  and  mine  are  the  fleets  of  the  sea, 
For  shivering  multitudes  clamor  for  me! 
Then,  chariot-borne  through  the  sleet  and  the  snow 
Of  winter-bound  cities,  triumphant  I  go, 
In  glory  and  dignity  second  to  none, 
Because  I  am  Coal  at  ten  dollars  a  ton! 


I6o] 


THE  DREAM  OF  CHUANG  TZU 

(CHINA,  FOURTH  CENTURY,  B.C.) 

IN  life  there's  naught 

That's  true,  but  Thought; 
The  Things  we  build  on  do  but  seem, 

For  Ear  and  Eye 

Will  cheat  and  lie. 
The  World  of  Sense  is  all  a  dream. 

I  dreamed:    Air-free, 

I  seemed  to  be 
A  Butterfly.     The  fragrant  bower 

Was  my  delight; 

In  vagrant  flight 
I  wavered  on  from  bud  to  flower. 

I  had  no  thought 
That  made  me  aught 


Than  what  I  seemed  in  Nature's  plan — 
The  Rose's  guest, 
The  Swallow's  quest. 

I  woke — and  found  myself  a  Man. 

Yet — was  I  then 

A  Man  of  men 
Who  joined  in  dreams  the  insect  clan? 

Or  now  am  I 

A  Butterfly 
Who  merely  dreams  that  he's  a  Man? 


AS  TO  POETS 

THE  Emperor  Akbar,  Lord  of  Ind,  awoke 
And,  half  in  jest,  to  Rajah  Birbal  spoke: 

"My  poet-friend,  in  Bhoja  Razu's  days 
The  minstrel  Kalidasa  filled  the  air 
With  mighty  harmonies;    but  tell  me,  where 

Is  he  that  grandly  sings  thy  monarch's  praise?" 

Then  Birbal,  wit  and  scholar,  bowed  his  head 
In  playful  reverence,  while  thus  he  said: 

"Great  Bhoja  Razu  proved  a  worthy  king; 

Rich  gifts  he  gave  to  wise  and  witty  men; 

When  kings  like  Bhoja  Razu  come  again, 
Like  Kalidasa  other  bards  shall  sins." 


A  HINDU   PARABLE 

THE  same  good  gifts  God  sends  to  all; 
On  fair  and  foul  His  blessings  fall. 

Upon  the  sea  a  raindrop  fell; 
A  pearl  was  born  within  a  shell. 

A  second  drop  a  rosebud  caught, 

And  thence  the  bee  sweet  honey  brought. 

As  pure  a  drop,  at  random  flung, 
Was  death  upon  the  adder's  tongue. 

The  same  good  gifts:    Oh,  tell  me,  friends, 
What  will  ye  do  with  what  He  sends? 


JUDISTHRA  AND  HIS  DOG 
FROM  "THE  MAHABHARATA" 


THE  end  drew  nigh.     Forspent  with  battle's  rage, 

His  wife  and  brothers  gone,  he  scarce  knew  how, 
Judisthra  took  his  final  pilgrimage, 

One  faithful  dog  his  sole  retainer  now; 
When,  rainbow-hued  with  gems,  before  them  rolled 

The  car  of  Indra,  whence  the  god  confessed 
In  music  spoke:    "Thou  Rajah,  mighty-souled, 

Ascend  with  me  to  Soorg  where  dwell  the  blest." 
"Great  Lord,  we  come,"  Judisthra  said,  and  turned 

To  call  the  dog;    but  Indra's  word  forbade: 
"Nay,  Rajah.     Place  in  Soorg  may  not  be  earned 

By  such  as  this;    but  loftier  spirits,  clad 
In  nobler  forms  like  thine,  alone  may  know 

The  star-bright  road."    Judisthra  spoke  again: 
"This  dog  hath  served  me  well  through  weal  and 
woe 

For  many  years;    and  now,  though  sons  of  men 
5  [6S] 


Desert  his  lord,  he  goes  where'er  I  tread, 

Demanding  naught  and  giving  all  he  may 
In  selfless  love.     And  shall  it  then  be  said 

That  I,  Judisthra,  framed  of  nobler  clay, 
Could  show  a  meaner  faith  than  this,  my  friend — 

Yea,  friend,  though  dog?    Nay,  Lord,  that  must 

not  be. 
My  road  his  road,  with  him  I  wait  the  end; 

Then  go  thy  way,  nor  trouble  him  and  me." 
Great  Indra  smiled  in  grander,  kindlier  wise, 

And  bade  them  both  ascend.    The  chariot  flew 
With  dog  and  god  and  man  beyond  the  skies 

To  that  unclouded  realm  where  all  are  true. 


66 


OMAR  AND  REASON 

A  DIALOGUE  FROM  THE  PERSIAN  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

OLD  Reason  dined  with  me — a  seldom  guest; 
We  passed  a  pleasant  noon  in  idle  jest. 

Said  I,  "Thou  Font  of  Knowledge,  pray  impart 
The  truth  of  many  things  that  vex  my  heart: 

"First  tell  me,  what  is  life  when  rightly  weighe  !  ?" 
"A  sleep,"  said  he,  "with  dreams  that  glow  and 
fade." 

"And  canst  thou  name  the  fruits  thereof?"  I  said. 
He  nodded.     "Sundry  aches  of  heart  and  head." 

Then,  "What  is  Marriage?"  next  I  sought  to  know. 
"An  hour's  joy,"  he  scoffed,  "and  years  of  woe." 

"Define,"  said  I,  "the  breed  that  prey  on  me." 

"A  pack  of  jackals,  wolvee,,  and  dogs!"  growled  he. 

[67] 


"Can  aught  subdue  the  soul  of  man?"  I  cried. 
"The  world  hath  whips,"  quoth  he,  "and  chains 
beside." 

"What  works  are  old  Khayyam's?"  I  asked  betimes. 
"False  figuring,"  he  laughed,  "and  crazy  rhymes!" 


[68] 


THAT  FRAUD,  OMAR 

WHEN  Omar  sang,  the  bloomin'  liar 

Extolled  the  alcoholic  spree; 
An'  yet  this  O.  Khayyam,  Esquire, 

Walked  jest  as  straight  as  you  an*  me. 

The  Proper  Folks  reviewed  his  lays 
As  Wrong,  of  course,  but  Awful  Nice, 

An*  gave  his  Work  unbounded  praise — 
The  tribute  Virtue  pays  to  Vice. 

But  Omar  knew,  the  crafty  lad, 
That  folks  is  eminently  thus, 

An'  kep'  his  pose  of  bein'  Bad 
To  make  a  hit— the  same  as  us. 


[69] 


SARSAPARILLA 

COME,  gather  round  the  festal  board 

By  ringing  goblets  dented! 
For  some  let  ginger-ale  be  poured, 

Or  grape-juice  (unfermented), 
Or  old  carbonic,  rich  and  prime, 

Or  seltzer  faintly  fishy; 
And  those  that  will  may  pass  their  time 

In  quaffing  milk-and-vichy. 
And  foaming  soda  pleases  most 

When  flavored  with  vanilla; 
But  as  for  me,  my  love  I  toast 

In  nut-brown  Sarsaparilla! 

No  Rhenish  vineyard  gave  it  birth, 

No  hillock  Andalusian; 
It  flowed  from  roots  of  western  earth, 

The  generous  infusion. 

[70] 


The  source  of  joy,  the  font  of  wit 

And  cadences  harmonic, 
It  is,  physicians  all  admit, 

A  safe  and  gentle  tonic. 
A  brew  to  tame  the  Missing  Link 

Or  African  gorilla, 
The  gods  on  high  Olympus  drink 

Of  nut-brown  Sarsaparilla! 

Then  fill  your  cups,  convivial  throngs, 

With  pop  and  juice  of  lemons, 
And  raise  the  rousing  drinking  songs 

Of  Mrs.  F.  D.  Hemans! 
Or  shout  your  paeans,  jovial  souls, 

To  Hebe,  Juno's  daughter, 
That  she  may  fill  your  crystal  bowls 

With  sparkling  lithia  water; 
\Vhile  I  on  Father  Horace  call 

To  leave  his  Sabine  villa 
And  pledge  with  me  the  health  of  all 

In  nut-brown  Sarsaparilla! 

[71] 


RULES  FOR  EDITORIAL  WRITERS 

WHEN  the  situation  clamors  for  a  pardonable  lie, 
Please  begin  your  observations  with,  "As  No  One 
Will  Deny." 

With  a  modest  little,  bashful  little  effort  to  de 
ceive, 

Kindly  use  the  introduction,  "We  Have  Reason  to 
Believe." 

When  the  information's  doubtful,  be  no  whit  dis 
mayed  thereat, 

Finding  refuge  in  the  sentence,  *°Tis  an  Open 
Secret  That—" 

You  may  search  the  very  marrow  of  your  contro 
versial  foes 

With  that  phrase  of  cold  disparagement,  "As 
Every  School-boy  Knows." 

[72] 


And  a  fraud  will  seem  as  pious  r.s  a  missionary  tract 
With   the   prefatory  label,   "It  Is   an  Undoubted 
Fact." 

So,  by  paying  close  attention  to  a  few  such  rules 

as  these, 
You  will  speedily  be  able  to  prevaricate  with  ease. 


[73] 


A  BLESSING  ON  ALL  COLLEGE 
JOURNALISTS 

YE  who  write  for  college  papers, 
Merry  sophomoric  japers, 
Candidates  for  inky  glories — 
Ye  who  pen  ambitious  stories, 
Noble  essays,  lyric  fancies, 
Undergraduate   romances, 
Screeds  that  reek  with  information, 
Slangy  quips  and  odes  Horatian — 
Ye  who,  fearing  no  one's  strictures, 
Draw  such  enterprising  pictures, 
Black-and-white  originators, 
Embryonic  illustrators — 
Ye  who  earn  still  greater  credit, 
Manumitted  souls  that  edit 
College  magazine  and  journal, 
Weekly,  monthly  or  diurnal; 

[74] 


Greatly  daring,  bravely  striving, 

Many  failing,  few  arriving, 

Giving  Genius,  oft,  its  chrism, 

Running  schools  of  journalism; 

Since  your  spirits  keep  the  savor 

Lost  by  older  souls  and  graver, 

Since  your  minds  are  fresh  and  truthful, 

Since  your  worst  is  yet  so  youthful, 

Since  your  best  is,  oh,  so  clever, 

May  your  light  shine  on  forever! 

Live  and  flourish!     Heaven  bless  you! 

May  no  worldly  ills  distress  you; 

May  no  debts  nor  duns  assail  you; 

May  subscribers  never  fail  you; 

May  you  never  dread  oppressors — 

All-too-literal  professors, 

Fussy  presidents,  or  others; 

Saucy,  joyous  younger  brothers; 

May  you  never  know  affliction! 

Bless  you!    Take  our  benediction! 

Fame's  immortal  red  geraniums 

We  would  wreathe  around  your  craniums. 

[75] 


THE  EGG-ROLLING 

TWAS  Jack  the  shrewd  an'  Mike  the  tall 
With  bashful  Tim  an'  Barney, 

That  Easter  morning  came  to  call 
On  little  Dinah  Carney. 

Sure,  each  was  there  with  hat  in  hand, 

The  lovely  girl  inviting 
To  walk  with  him,  ye  understand. 

They  nearly  fell  to  fighting! 

Till  Dinah  says  to  them,  "I  beg 
The  day  ye'll  not  be  spoiling! 

I'll  hand  ye  each  an  Easter  egg — 
They've  been  the  hour  a-boiling. 

"Ye'll  roll  yer  eggs  the  best  ye  can; 
An'  by  the  selfsame  token, 

[76] 


I'll  walk  with  that  young  gentleman 
That  keeps  his  egg  unbroken/' 

How  any  lass  on  every  lad 

Can  put  her  sweet  comether! 
With  all  the  wit  an*  craft  they  had 

They  rolled  their  eggs  together. 

But  Mike's  went  broke,  an*  broke  was  Jack's, 
That  thought  himself  so  clever, 

While  Barney's  egg  had  twenty  cracks, 
But  Tim's  was  whole  as  ever. 

An'  so,  ye  mind,  'twas  bashful  Tim 
That  went  to  walk  with  Dinah, 

Because  the  egg  she  gave  to  him 
Was  all  of  solid  china! 


77 


OF  CERTAIN  IRISH  FAIRIES 

THE  Leprechaun, — the  omadhaun! — that  lives  in 

County  Clare, 
Is  one  foot  wide  and  three  foot  high  without  an 

inch  to  spare. 
He  winks  the  sea-blue  eye  of  him,  like  other  saucy 

rogues,  . 
And  underneath  the  blackthorn-bush  he  sits  to  clout 

his  brogues. 
Then,  if  you  catch  the  Leprechaun  and  never  loose 

your  hold, 
He's  bound  to  show  you  where  he's  hid  a  pot  of 

yellow  gold, 
And  give  you,  too,  a  fairy  purse  with  tassels  down 

the  end, 
That's  never  bare,  but  always  full,  no  matter  what 

you  spend. 
'Tis   I   would   catch   the  Leprechaun; — and   then 

what  would  I  do? 

[78] 


I'd  take  the  yellow  gold,  machree,  and  give  it  all 
to  you! 

The  Cluricawne  of  Monaghan  is  mighty  seldom 
seen; 

He  wears  a  crimson  swallow-tail,  a  vest  of  apple- 
green 

And  shiny  shoes  with  buckles,  too,  and  silver  ones 
at  that, 

And  on  his  curly  head,  askew  he  claps  a  steeple- 
hat. 

'Tis  I  would  catch  the  Cluricawne; — and  why? 
Because  he  knows 

The  only  spot  in  Erin  where  the  four-leafed  sham 
rock  grows, — 

The  shamrock  that  the  fairies  tend,  that  does  not 
grow  from  seed; 

'Twill  bring  you  health  and  wealth  and  love — 
though  'tis  not  love  you  need, — 

And  ribbons,  laces,  brooches,  rings,  or  anything  you 
name. 

So  when  I've  caught  the  Cluricawne,  'tis  you  shall 
have  the  same. 

[79] 


The  Leprechaun  and  Cluricawne  are  clever  little 

men, 
Yet  will  I  catch  them,  by  and  by;    but  need  we 

wait  till  then  ? 
My  breast  is  warm  to  nestle  you,  my  arms  are 

strong  to  hold, 
Our  youth  is  richer  spending-sturT  than  any  elfin 

gold, 
My  heart  it  is  a  fairy  purse  of  wealth  without  an 

end, 
That's  brimming  full  of  love  for  you,  no  matter 

what  you  spend. 
"And  what's  the  shamrock,  then?"  say  you.   What 

else,  for  me,  indeed, 
But  you! — since  if  I  have  yourself,  there's  nothing 

more  I'll  need. 
And  by  St.   Patrick's  kettledrum  that  drove  the 

snakes  below, 
I'll  catch  you,  like  the  Leprechaun,  but  never  let 

you  go! 


80] 


THE  FAIRIES 

WHEN  Lucifer's  rapscallions 

Unsheathed  their  flaming  swords 

And  Heaven's  bright  battalions 
Opposed  the  rebel  hordes, 

The  Seraphs  of  the  Seasons, — 
Of  Water,  Air  and  Land, — 

For  sound,  prudential  reasons 
Declined  to  take  a  hand, 

Lamenting  that  the  fight  was 

A  dreadful  stroke  of  Fate 
And  doubting  where  the  Right  was, 

They  guessed  they'd  watch  and  wait, 

But  after  Michael's  legions 

Had  hurled  the  fiends  accursed 

To  Sheol's  hottest  regions 
(See  Milton,  Book  the  First), 
[81] 


The  Seraphs  who  had  faltered, 
So  neutral  and  so  nice, 

Their  glory  sadly  altered, 
Were  shut  from  Paradise. 

And  now  as  fairies,  pixies, 
Pigwidgeons,  leprechauns, 

As  kobolds,  jinns,  and  nixes, 
As  satyrs,  nymphs,  and  fauns, 

Controlled  by  spirits  seven 
On  Middle  Earth  they  dwell, 

Not  good  enough  for  Heaven 
Nor  bad  enough  for  Hell. 


[82] 


THE  PEACOCK 

'TwAS  down  by  the  entrance  to  Paradise  Park; 

The  Devil  (I'm  begging  yer  pardon!) 
Was  watching  and  scheming  from  dawning  till  dark 

To  blarney  his  way  to  the  Garden. 

He'd  heard  as  how  Adam  was  taking  a  bride, 
And  wished  he'd  been  asked  to  the  wedding — 

When,  all  of  a  sudden,  before  him  he  spied 
The  Peacock  parading  and  spreading. 

"My  Lord,"  purrs  the  Devil  with  flattering  lie, 
(And  pleased  was  the  Peacock  to  hear  him,) 

"Yer  Worship,  a  little  lost  angel  am  I;" 
(The  Peacock  kept  swaggering  near  him); 

"I  pledge  ye  my  troth  and  I  give  ye  my  word 
And  I  vow  by  the  Pleiades  seven, 

There  isn't  yer  equal,  splendiferous  Bird, 
In  all  of  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven! 

[83] 


"What  wonders  must  hide  in  the  Garden,  yer  Grace, 

That  shelters  so  lovely  a  Being! 
I'm   wishing   yer   Highness   would   show   me   yer 
place — 

'Twill  be  none  the  worse  for  my  seeing." 

That  silly  young  Peacock  flew  over  the  rail; 

The  blarneying  speeches  he  swallowed; 
He  took  in  the  Devil,  concealed  by  his  tail — 

And  do  ye  remember  what  followed? 

Sure,  all  of  our  troubles  we  date  from  that  hour, 
Our  worries,  our  pains,  and  distresses, 

Our  strivings  for  Wealth  and  our  longings  for  Power, 
Our  bother  with  garments  and  dresses. 

Ah,  Pride  is  the  friend  of  the  Father  of  Sin! 

Yes,  Norah  mine,  ponder  upon  it; 
'Twas  Vanity,  mark,  let  his  Devilship  in; — 

And  why  must  ye  have  a  new  bonnit! 


[84] 


OUR  WEDDINGS 

LONG  since,  when  Ursa  Major  was  a  cub, 

When  mammoth-steak  supplied  our  frugal  larder, 

I  wooed  your  maiden  fancy  with  a  club — 

(Thank  Heaven  that  I  did  not  hit  you  harder!). 

Thenceforward,  undeterred  by  slight  or  snub, 
I've  urged  my  suit  with  undiminished  ardor, 

And  won  your  heart  and  hand  through  sheer  per 
sistence 

In  each  and  every  subsequent  existence. 

With  changeful  ceremony  they  have  tied 
Our  ever-constant  matrimonial  tether. 

As  ancient  Picts,  my  bonny,  tattooed  bride, 
They  pledged  our  wedded  bliss  in  brew  of  heather; 

Our  Coptic  subjects  throned  us  side  by  side; 
As  Eskimos,  they  froze  us  fast  together; 

And,  as  an  Arab,  free  of  foolish  trammels, 

I  bought  you — (let  me  see!) — for  twenty  camels. 


You've  seen  me  interrupt  our  nuptial  flight 
To  carve  my  future  folks-in-law  in  sections. 

You  know,  my  love,  how,  as  an  errant  knight, 
I  overcame  your  strenuous  objections 

And  bore  you  off  with  force  and  arms,  despite 
The  efforts  of  your  family  connections. 

Your  price  was  often  large,  as  I  unearth  it 

From  Memory's  tomb — but  you  were  always  worth 
it. 

So,  whether  jewel-hung  and  golden-zoned, 

In  Eastern  realms  you  yield  me  all  your  sweet 
ness, 

Or  whether  Lohengrin'd  and  Mendelssohn'd 
We  drive  away  with  Occidental  fleetness, 

What  matter? — Deathless  voices,  silver-toned, 
Shall  bid  us  taste  anew  of  Love's  completeness 

And  crowd  our  book  of  life  with  brighter  pages 

While,  hand  in  hand,  we  wander  down  the  ages. 


86 


SPRING 

THE  brown-furred  gnomes  from  their  winter  homes 

In  the  trees  and  rocks 
Have  ventured  forth;    and  the  birds  rush  north 

In  rejoicing  flocks. 
The  bright  chewink  and  the  bobolink 

With  the  robin  sing, 
"Come  out,  come  out!  for  beyond  a  doubt 

It  is  truly  Spring!" 

Where  Spring  has  walked  among  the  trees 
The  violets  come  in  twos  and  threes. 

The  trout  leap  up  from  the  mossy  cup 

Of  the  crystal  pool. 
The  fly-rods  swish.     And  the  small  boys  wish 

That  there  was  no  school. 
The  urgent  call  of  the  wood  is  all 

That  a  dreamer  hears, 


And  I  don't  want  to  look  at  a  printed  book 
For  a  thousand  years! 

The  only  tune  that  Spring  can  play 
Is,  "Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Azvay!" 

The  deer-mice  whisk  and  the  rabbits  frisk 

While  the  froglings  pipe. 
The  grackles  clack;    and  the  chipmunk's  back 

Has  a  fresher  stripe. 
Alone,  the  bee  is  a  drudge,  but  she 

Is  a  stodgy  thing; 
And  the  young  romance  of  the  world  will  dance 

To  the  lutes  of  Spring. 

She  brings  delight  that  cannot  cloy, 
For  Spring  is  Youth,  and  Youth  is  Joy. 


88 


PICNICS 

OH,  sandwiches  of  ham  and  chicken! 
What  soul  so  dead  that  does  not  quicken 
At  thought  of  you — and  pies  and  tarties 
And  all  the  joys  of  picnic  parties! 

Behold,  beneath  the  leafy  bower, 
The  Age  of  Gold  again  in  flower! 
For  here  two  hearts  as  one  are  beating, 
And  there  the  grosser  sort  are  eating. 

Where  green  are  trees  and  soft  are  mosses, 
Forget  the  world,  its  cares  and  crosses! 
For  all  the  chaperones  are  snoozing, 
And  all  the  younger  folk  are  twosing. 


[89] 


MEXICAN  SERENADE 

WHEN  the  little  armadillo 
With  his  head  upon  his  pillow 

Sweetly  rests, 

And  the  parrakeet  and  lindo 
Flitting  past  my  cabin  window 

Seek  their  nests, — 

When  the  mists  of  even  settle 
Over  Popocatapetl, 

Dropping  dew, — 
Like  the  condor,  over  yonder, 
Still  I  ponder,  ever  fonder, 

Dear,  of  You! 

May  no  revolution  shock  you, 

May  the  earthquake  gently  rock  you 

To  repose, 

While  the  sentimental  panthers 
Sniff  the  pollen-laden  anthers 

Of  the  rose! 
[90] 


While  the  pelican  is  pining, 
While  the  moon  is  softly  shining 

On  the  stream, 

May  the  song  that  I  am  singing 
Send  a  tender  cadence  winging 

Through  your  dream! 

I  have  just  one  wish  to  utter — 
That  you  twinkle  through  your  shutter 

Like  a  star, 

While,  according  to  convention, 
I  shall  cas-u-ally  mention 

My  guitar. 

Senorita  Maraquita, 
Muy  bonita,  pobracita! — 

Hear  me  weep! — 
But  the  night  is  growing  wetter, 
So  I  guess  that  you  had  better 

Go  to  sleep. 


[91] 


THE  SUMMER  BOARDER 

coming!  She's  coming!  She's  coming 

Old  Chanticleer  cries  through  the  vale. 
The  Bees  are  excitedly  humming, 

The  Turkey  is  spreading  his  tail; 
The  sky  puts  a  lovelier  blue  on, 

The  meadow  brook  bubbles  with  glee; 
Our  Sovereign  Lady  is  due  on 

The  Four-twenty-three! 

Then,  folk  of  the  forested  regions 

And  folk  of  the  fields  and  the  rocks, 
You  Beetle  and  Grasshopper  legions 

And  Birds  of  all  feathers  and  flocks 
And  waifs  of  the  alder-hung  mazes, 

Come,  gather,  betimes,  on  the  green 
To  greet,  with  devotional  phrases, 

Our  Midsummer  Queen: 

[92] 


"Dear  Mistress,  whose  butterfly  will  is 

The  mightiest  force  in  our  world, 
The  lane  has  been  bordered  with  lilies, 

The  ferns  have  been  carefully  curled, 
The  daisies  are  washing  their  faces, 

Still  bright  in  crystalline  dew; 
And  all  of  your  favorite  places 

Are  ready  for  you. 

"The  Thrushes  and  Wrens  in  the  thickets 

Shall  trill  for  your  morning  delight; 
The  Katydids,  Bullfrogs,  and  Crickets 

Shall  play  you  concertos  at  night; 
The  Squirrel  shall  frisk  for  your  pleasure; 

For  you  shall  the  berry  be  sweet; 
Ourselves  and  our  rustical  treasure 

We  lay  at  your  feet!'* 


[931 


ARCHITECTURE 

I  HAVE  left  the  city  with  its  grinding  noise, 
With  its  sordid  sorrows  and  its  pinchbeck  joys, 
For  the  cleanly  comfort  of  a  prim  abode 
In  a  new-laid  suburb  on  a  two-track  road, 
Where  the  mastiff  greets  me  with  a  "Woof,  woof, 

woof!" 

From  a  red-brick  kennel  with  a  mansard  roof, 
Where  the  Leghorns  cackle  in  a  chicken-coop 
With  a  dormer  window  and  a  high  Dutch  stoop, 
Where  the  small  pigs  gambol  and  the  large  pigs 

grunt 

In  a  sty  of  stucco  with  a  Queen  Anne  front, 
And  the  horse  shall  whinny  and  the  cow  shall  low 
la  a  new  Greek  stable  with  a  portico! 


[94] 


SONG  OF  THE  REDUCERS 

COME,  all  ye  afflicted,  whose  chief  of  woes 

Is  grossly  superfluous  adipose, 

And  learn  of  our  Method  of  Growing  Thin — 

Relief  to  the  Slaves  of  the  Triple  Chin! 

Regard  a  potato  with  awe  and  dread; 

You  mustn't  eat  cereals,  cheese,  or  bread 

Or  custards  or  puddings  or  cakes  or  pies 

Or  sugar  or  butter  or  sweets  or  fries; 

Then,  sloughing  the  dross  of  your  fine  physique, 

You  soon  will  be  losing  a  Pound  a  Week. 

A  Pound  a  Week,  and  a  Pound  a  Week! 
If  thistledown  grace  be  the  boon  you  seek, 
Adhere  to  the  diet  whereof  we  speak 
And  soon  you'll  be  losing  a  Pound  a  Week. 

Think  not  we  have  left  you  with  naught  to  eat! 
There's  cabbage,  tomatoes  and  fruit  and  meat 

[95] 


And  all  of  the  garden-truck  heart  could  wish, 
With  eggs  in  their  loveliness,  fowl  and  fish. 
But  touch  not  the  flesh  of  the  pigling  small, 
And  never,  no  never,  drink  milk  at  all, 
Nor  cocktails  nor  whisky  nor  beer  or  such; 
And  don't  you  be  lazy  or  sleep  too  much. 
Then,  though  you  were  like  a  museum  freak, 
You'll  lose,  at  the  lowest,  a  Pound  a  Week. 

A  Pound  a  Week,  and  a  Pound  a  Week! 
What  joy  to  be  slim  as  a  heron's  beak! 
Abandon  the  ranks  of  the  fat  and  sleek 
And  join  us  in  losing  a  Pound  a  Week. 


[96] 


THE  LYRIC  BAEDEKER 

PHILADELPHIA 

I  CAN  lyricize  ornately 

Of  the  city  that  sedately 
Stands  upon  the  western  bank  of  Delaware, 

For  I  know  a  Lloyd,  a  Norris 

And  a  Rittenhouse  and  Morris, 
And  I'm  quite  at  home  on  Independence  Square. 

In  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second, 

Where  the  leafy  forest  beckoned 
It  was  founded  by  a  certain  William  Pcnn, 

Whom  the  people  speak  quite  well  of; 

And  you  also  hear  them  tell  of 
Mr.  Franklin,  known  familiarly  as  "Ben." 

There  are  many  colored  voters, 
And  a  reckless  mob  of  motors, 
And  the  streets  are  Market,  Chestnut,  Spruce,  and 
Pine. 

7  [971 


The  descendants  of  the  Quakers 
Buy  their  pins  at  Wanamaker's, 
And  the  Stratford  is  the  proper  place  to  dine. 

When  you  pass  the  outer  boundaries 

Of  the  textile  mills  and  foundries, 
Fairmount  Park  will  yield  contentment  to  the  soul. 

All  the  suburbs  are  alluring; 

And  their  roads  are  fine  for  touring, 
Though  at  every  other  mile  you  pay  a  toll. 

Where  the  trees  in  April  quicken 

On  the  lovely  Wissahickon, 
Or  in  winter  where  the  Schuylkill,  full  of  slush, 

Cuts  the  city  through  the  middle, 

One  may  even  see  a  Biddle, 
A  Cadwallader,  a  Shippen,  or  a  Rush! 

You  should  tarry  there  and  grapple 

With  the  mysteries  of  "scrapple" — 
A  conglomerate  of  flour,  herbs,  and  pork. 

Philadelphia,  not  to  quiz  it, 

Is  a  pleasant  place — to  visit; 
Which  is  what  the  natives  say  about  New  York. 

[98] 


THE  LYRIC  BAEDEKER 

SEATTLE 

HER  earliest  settlers,  in  brief, 

Arrived  with  their  guns  and  their  cattle, 
And  took  from  an  Indian  chief 

The  site  and  the  name  of  Seattle. 

And  now,  with  unanimous  voice, 
Their  progeny,  brave  and  prolific, 

Proclaim  that  the  town  of  their  choice 
Is  Queen  of  the  Azure  Pacific! 

Her  thoroughfares  bustle  and  hum; 

(Her  neighboring  ranges  are  glacial); 
They  boast  that  she  hasn't  a  slum; 

Her  dwellings  are  simply  palatial. 

Her  lakes,  newly  joined  to  the  Sound, 
Are  rated  as  chief  of  her  glories; 

[99] 


Her  buildings  are  widely  renowned — 
The  tallest  has  forty-two  stories! 

Her  death-rate's  as  low  as  can  be; 

Her  climate  is  bracing,  yet  balmy; 
And  every  one  tells  you  to  see 

Her  thundering  Falls  of  Snoqualmie. 

Her  forested  parkways  invite 

The  stranger  with  piney  aroma; 
Her  citizens  all  are  polite — 

Except  when  you  flatter  Tacoma. 

Her  maidens  are  none  of  them  plain, 

You'll  nowhere  find  men  who  are  brainier; 

And  if  she  has  plenty  of  rain, 

Her  favorite  mountain  is  Rainier. 


[100] 


THE  LYRIC  BAEDEKER 

KALAMAZOO 

HER  founder's  name  was  Bronson, 

So  thus  they  named  the  town, 
Instead  of  Jenkins,  Johnson, 

Or  Smith,  or  Jones,  or  Brown. 
But  when  her  realm  expanded 
And  trumpet-sounding  Fame 
Repeatedly  demanded 
A  more  sonorous  name, 

They  christened  her  anew 
Kalamazoo,  Kalamazoo! 
Her  glory  ever  grew, 
Kalamazoo. 

Her  streets  are  lined  with  maples 
And  oaks  with  bushy  heads. 

Among  her  leading  staples 
Are  corsets,  mint,  and  sleds. 
[101] 


Her  paper,  plain  or  coated, 

Is  classed  as  superfine. 
Her  celery  is  noted 
Wherever  people  dine. 

Four  railways  hurry  through 
Kalamazoo,  Kalamazoo; 
She  has  a  college,  too, 
Kalamazoo. 

Though  Kennebunk,  Kiona, 

Kenosha,  Kankakee, 
And  Kokomo,  Katonah, 
Kewanee,  Kissimmee, 
Invite  the  would-be  witty 
With  cadences  in  "K," 
No  other  comic  city 

Can  lure  my  heart  away. 
In  spite  of  Baraboo, 
Kalamazoo,  Kalamazoo, 
I  still  am  true  to  you, 
Kalamazoo! 


[102] 


A  DEFENSE  OF  CONNECTICUT 

ROMANCE  would  love  to  fib  of  stormy  billows, 
And  how  they  beat  a  stern  and  rock-bound  shore, 

But  History  disdains  these  peccadillos, 
And  briefly  states:    "In  Sixteen-thirty-four 

Connecticut  was  founded  by  a  few  sets 

Of  eager  emigrants  from  Massachusetts." 

They  wanted  Liberty — that  blessed  boon! 

(The  Pilgrim  Fathers  were  undemocratic.) 
They  wanted  peace  and  land;    so  pretty  soon 

They  found  their  savage  neighbors  too  erratic, 
And  marched  to  massacre  the  fierce  Pequots, 
Those  haughty,  copper-colored  Hottentots. 

Then  others  came  to  swell  the  congregation 
And  settle  towns  like  Hartford,  Windsor,  Lyme — 

Good  men,  who  showed  a  pious  inclination 
Toward  minding  their  own  business  all  the  time; 


Averse  to  pomp  and  pride,  and  ever  humble, 
Though  born  to  names  like  Masson,  Dwight,  and 
Trumbull. 

Their  government  was  free  and  wise  and  just; 

For  that's  a  foul  untruth  about  the  "  Blue  Laws" ! 
The  guile  of  those  who  spread  the  libel  must 

Be  clear  to  any  one  that  reads  their  true  laws. 
A  man,  in  spite  of  all  that's  said  by  foes, 
Might  kiss  his  wife  on  Sunday — if  he  chose! 

Because  they  never  took  much  stock  in  meddling, 
Because  they  plowed  their  fields  and  hoed  their 
corn, 

Or  spent  their  week-days  making  clocks  or  peddling, 
Because  they  went  to  church  each  Sabbath  morn 

Instead  of  catching  trout  or  shooting  rabbits, 

Their  State  is  called  "the  Land  of  Steady  Habits." 

And  Eli  Whitney  built  the  cotton-gin; 

And  Noah  Webster  built  the  book  I'm  using 
To  spell  some  words  your  eye  shall  meet  herein — 

How  sweet  to  while  away  the  hours  perusing 
[104] 


That  Tome  of  English  undefiled  and  pure, 

The  Corner-stone  of  all  our  Literature! 

i 

And  countless  others  lit  the  furnace  fires 

And  toiled  with  skilful  hands  and  daring  minds: 

Britannia  metal,  rifles,  watches,  tires, 

Machines  for  sewing,  corsets,  window-blinds, 

Elastics,  woolens,  iron  pipes  and  gutters — 

How  much  we  owe  to  keen  Connecticutters! 

They  lie  that  charge  the  State  with  greed  for  pelf — 
With  shoe-peg  oats  and  wooden  nutmegs — darn 
'em! 

I  know,  because  I  dwelt  there  once  myself, 
A  fellow-citizen  of  P.  T.  Barnum, 

And  hereby  lay  a  rnalison  upon 

All  future  puns  about  "the  State  of  Con."! 


['105  1 


LITERATURE 

RAM  CHUNDER,  the  lyrical  Hindoo, 
Who  dresses,  as  most  of  his  kin  do, 
In  picturesque  chuddar  and  turban 
Is  worshiped  by  circles  suburban. 

While  city  folk  swear  by  Nekroskow, 
The  dramatist,  lately  of  Moscow; 
His  plots  are  depressingly  hazy, 
His  characters  gloomily  crazy. 

A  bevy  of  poets  from  Britain 

Are  reading  us  books  they  have  written; 

And  all  the  Young  Gaels  christened 

"Shamus" 
Are  simply  unbearably  famous. 

Oh,  let  us  away  to  Australia! 
Assuming  the  bushman's  regalia, 
[106] 


We'll  chant  of  antipodal  drearness 
In  lines  of  exceptional  queerness. 

For  only  the  author  who's  foreign 
Is  worth  'arf  a  crown  or  a  florin; 
And  none  but  the  utterly  cranky 
Would  think  of  esteeming  a  Yankee! 


107 


SHAKESPEARE-BACON 

SOME  hold  that  Francis  Bacon  wrote 

The  plays  we  tag  with  Shakespeare's  name, 

And  cabalistic  dreams  they  quote 

With  cipher  codes  to  prove  their  claim. 

Well,  grant  that  Bacon  chose  to  bind 

On  Shakespeare's  brow  his  own  green  bays; 

He  donned  the  mask, — why  look  behind? 
He  had  his  game, — we  have  the  plays. 

Beyond  the  peaceful  stars,  mayhap, 
The  twice-bought  judge  in  wig  and  gown 

Reviles  the  merry  player-chap, 

And  bids  him  yield  the  poet's  crown. 

If  Bacon's  spirit  clamors  thus, 

What  mirth  must  move  the  cherubim! 
He  meant  to  play  a  joke  on  us, 

And,  after  all,  the  joke's  on  him! 
[108] 


AFTERNOON  TEA 

A    SONNET    SEQUENCE 

As  wildly  raged  the  tea-imbibing  throng 

About  the  urn,  with  measured  step  and  slow, 
The  mighty  spirits  of  the  realm  of  song 

(At  some  weird  seance  on  the  floor  below 
Materialized],  among  them  moved,  amazed 

At  what  they  heard.  A  teacup  dropped  and  broke, 
All  unregarded,  when,  with  hand  upraised, 

Full  solemnly  the  shade  of  Milton  spoke: 

I 

RESIGNATION 

When  I  consider  how  my  time  is  spent 
At  gatherings  to  meet  some  tender  bride, 
Or  "Just  a  few  dear  friends,"  or,  woe  betide! 
Some  foreign  super-person,  eloquent, 
Whom  women  rave  about,  or,  ill-content, 
[109] 


Some  bashful  English  poet,  wistful-eyed, 

Who    yearns,    I     know,    to     run     away     and 

hide,— 

Rebelliously  I   question,   "Was  I  meant 
To  hear  this  talk  that  runs  around  in  rings? 
And  must  I  waste  the  blessed  afternoon?" 
Then,  "Hush!"  says  Patience;   "Think  upon  the 

fate 
Of    those    who    needs    must    pass     the    tea    and 

things — 
Who    may    not    say,   'Good-by/   as    you   shall 

soon, — 

Who  have  to   serve,   and,   likewise,   stand   and 
wait!" 

Backed  up  against  a  shelf  whereon  reposed 

His  works  (with  leaves  uncut,  I  sadly  fear). 
Stood  Wordsworth.     Intermittently  he  dozed, 

The  solitary  Bard  of  Windermere; 
Then,  waking  from  a  pleasant  forty  winks, 

He  drew  about  his  shape  its  cloak  of  gray, 
And,  borrowing  a  sonnet-form,  methinks 

Employed  by  Shelley,  thus  he  said  his  say; 
[no] 


II 

SOME    FOLKS   ARE   TOO   MUCH    WITH    US 

Some    folks    are    too    much    with    us — much    too 
much. 

"Yes,"  sighed  the  lady  with  the  gems  galore, 
"One's  life  in  Europe  puts  one  out  of  touch 

With  matters  here;    but  then,  this  dreadful  war 
Just  fairly  drove  us  back.     And  we  had  such 

A  weary  hunt  to  find  a  house  before 
We  took  that  spacious,  fine  old  Tudor  place, 

Or  mansion,  rather.    Then  the  coal,  you  know! 
We  burn  twelve  tons  a  week  in  any  case; 

But  no  one  would  deliver  it,  and  so 
We  had  to  send  the  touring-cars,  with  Brace, 
Our  second-man,  the  five  chauffeurs,  and  Fred, 

To  load  and  fetch  it  home  and  store  it!"    "Oh, 
I'm  glad  you  are  so  rich!"  said  I,  and  fled. 

The  ablest  critics  working  at  the  trade, 
As  poets  know,  are  often  much  mistaken; 

So  was  it  Shakespeare *s  self  that  next  essayed 
The  lofty  strain — or  was  it  only  Bacon? 


Ill 

SONNET   XXX 

When  to  these  sessions,  more  of  speech  than  thought, 

By  custom  urged,  reluctantly  I  come, 
I  know  that  I  converse  not  as  I  ought 

In  courtesy.     Yet,  better  far  be  dumb 
Than  prate  like  these,  "Yes,  Youth  will  have  its 
fling!" 

Or,  "Isn't  it  a  small  world,  after  all?" 
Or,  haply,  "Money  isn't  everything." 

The  sugar  in  my  cup  is  changed  to  gall 
When  one  declares,  "I  never  bear  a  grudge," 

Or  lauds  his  "sense  of  humor,"  save  the  mark! 
Or  proses  how  "It  isn't  right  to  judge 

By  mere  appearances."     But  hark!  oh,  hark! 
What  cultured  wight  is  yon  that  says,  "My  friend, 
All  Art  is  but  a  Means  to  reach  an  End!" 

"One  lumpy  or  two?"  the  hostess  breathed  again; 

Light  laughter  rippled  up  and  down  the  scale; 
The  tea-urn  bubbled  musically,  when 

The  shade  of  Shelley  told  its  wondrous  tale: 

[112] 


IV 

GARGANTUA   OF    GOTHAM 

I  met  a  traveler  from  an  antique  land, 

Who  said:    "The  finest  pilaff  ever  known 
I  ate  in  Cairo  at  the  Hotel  Grand; 

The  chef  is  excellent,  though  overprone 
To  use  of  garlic.     But  the  ablest  hand 

For  flavoring  a  goulash  to  a  dot, 
Is  Samovarovitch  of  Budapest. 

Then,  if  you're  fond  of  ices  (I  am  not; 
Those  fancy  dishes  don't  appeal  to  me), 

Remember,  you  can  always  get  the  best 
At  Andrea's  in  Rome.     But  with  your  tea 

Or  coffee,  in  the  Kilmenoff  Cafe 
In  Petrograd,  they  serve  you  pirozhki 

That  melt  upon  the  tongue  and  die  away!" 

As  gabbling  tongues  the  deafened  ear  assailed 

With  vapid  eloquence  in  every  key, 
The  gentle  Keats  inordinately  railed, — 

Intoxicated  on  a  cup  of  tea: 
8  [H3] 


ON    FIRST   LOOKING    IN    ON    A   TEA    RIOT 

Much  having  travailed  over  weighty  schemes, 

To  lighter  chat  I  lend  a  ready  ear; 

Yet  even  so,  I  would  not  choose  to  hear 
Soft  adolescents  tell  their  silly  dreams, 
Nor  would  I  give  a  brace  of  chocolate  creams 

To  learn  "what  Willie  said,  the  little  dear!" 

While  operations,  more  or  less  severe, 
Are  palpably  unpardonable  themes. 
I  do  not  care  about  your  family  ties, 

And  "Fashion"  is  a  word  I  fain  would  ban. 
Oh,  ye  that  chatter  on,  while  Chronos  flies, 

Of  babies,  dress  and  servants,  futile  clan, 
I  stare  upon  ye  all  in  pained  surprise. 

Silence!— I'd  rather  speak  with  Mary  Ann!" 

Recovering  a  square  of  buttered  toast 

From    off    the    rug    where,    right    side    down,    it 

fell, 
In  kindly  words  the  ever-gracious  ghost 

Of  Mrs.  Browning  sighed  a  sad  farewell: 


VI 

SONNET  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 

I  lift  my  brimming  teacup  solemnly 

As  once  Electra  her  sepulchral  urn, 

For  I  do  fear  that  it  would  overturn 
If  I  should  set  it  sudden  on  my  knee 
As  skilful  jugglers  do.     I  like  your  tea; 

It  has  a  pleasant  hint  of  wildwood  fern; 

Where  do  you  get  it?    And  I  fain  would  learn 
Just  how  you  brown  your  toast  so  daintily. 
A  food  on  which  a  fairy  might  be  fed, 

Your  angel-cake  is  soft  and  light  as  snow. 
Those  cookies  are  delicious!     Have  you  read 

The  "Bacchze"  of  Euripides?     I  know 
You  have!     But,  mercy!  how  the  day  has  fled! 

A  lovely  time!  but  I  must  really  go! 


AVERSIONS 

THE     BANKER 

THE  Job  for  which  I  never  hanker 

Is  that  of  him  they  call  a  Banker, 

W.ho  gets  cartooned  in  Silk  Top-hats, 

White  Whiskers,  Waistcoats,  Shirts,  and  Spats; 

Who  perspicaciously  arranges 

Some  Mysteries  yclept  "Exchanges" 

And  "Arbitrage"  and  "Drafts,"  and  lends 

Your  Cash  and  mine  to  Business  Friends. 

To  sit  like  him  and  'tend  to  Banking, 

With  all  that  Money  clinking-clanking, 

Would  try,  I'm  sure,  the  Man  of  Uz, — 

(What  is  it  that  a  Banker  does?) 

THE    ARCHITECT 

Disciples,  heed  my  warning  lecture 
And  take  no  stock  in  Architecture: 

[116.1 


For  Architects  must  learn  by  heart 

The  Fifty-seven  Styles  of  Art 

To  build  the  Rich  Burmese  Chateaux 

And  Saracenic  Bungalows. 

In  hope  of  Fame  and  Proud  Positions 

They  enter  Public  Competitions 

And  sweat  beneath  Electric  Fans 

Computing  Costs  and  drafting  Plans; 

And,  after  all  their  Works  and  Wastings, 

Who  gets  the  Job? — Carrere  &  Hastings! 

THE    DOCTOR 

Ah,  who  would  choose  to  be  a  Doctor — 
A  Microbe-stalking  Pill-concocter! 
At  3  A.M.  they  ring  his  Bell 
Because  some  Fellow's  dined  too  well. 
He  has  to  leave  a  Joyous  Frolic 
Because  a  Baby  gets  a  Colic; 
And  while  subduing  Mortal  Ills 
With  Jalap,  Ipecac  and  Squills, 
He  has  to  hear  the  Conversations 
Of  patients,  matching  Operations; 
In?] 


And  then,  to  crown  his  Pain  and  Strife, 
They  give  him  Paddywhack  in  Life! 

THE     EDITOR 

Don't  edit  Magazine  or  Journal, 

Not  even  if  they  call  you  "Colonel." 

The  Editor  is  born  for  Woe. 

(I've  been  the  Thing  and  hence  I  know.) 

With  Open  Ears  to  all  Advisers — 

Subscribers,  Owners,  Advertisers — 

He  toils  within  his  gloomy  Haunts 

A-guessing  What  the  Public  Wants, 

Repelling  Lovely  Authoresses 

Who  will  not  Guess  the  Way  he  Guesses — 

And  has  to  read  what  every  Bore 

Has  got  to  say  about  the  War. 

THE     COOK 

It's  tough  to  have  to  con  a  Cook-book! 
(I  much  prefer  my  Trout-Fly-Hook-book) ; 
Which  means  that  I  deplore  the  lot 
Of  him  who  has  to  Boil  the  Pot. 
[118] 


His  Indoor  Sports  are  cutting  onions 

And  roasting  beef  for  "rump-fed  ronyons," 

Or  baking  buns  or  apple  pie 

For  Heartless  Hordes  in  Hot  July. 

Still  worse,  his  Regular  Employment 

Prevents  his  Gustative  Enjoyment 

Of  Timbales,  Hash,  and  Things  Sauteed,— 

Too  well  he  knows  of  What  They're  Made! 

THE     AVIATOR 

How  sad  to  be  an  Aviator! 
Of  Icarus  the  imitator, 
He  loops  the  loop  to  Kingdom  Come 
Propelled  by  vile  Petroleum. 
Through  drizzly  clouds  of  varied  sizes 
Aloft  to  dizzy  heights  he  rises 
Until  across  his  path  he  sees 
The  Mountains'  bleak  chevaux-de-frise. 
I've  never  thought  his  costume  dressy; 
Besides,  his  death  is  Awful  Messy. 
And  were  I  he,  my  lofty  song 
Would  scarce  have  lasted  half  so  long. 

[119] 


THE     ICEMAN 

Fd  somehow  hate  to  be  the  Iceman 
(Though  ours  is  certainly  a  nice  man). 
In  Winter,  people  fume  and  scold 
Because  his  Wares  are  much  too  cold, 
And  yet  they  growl  and  look  still  glummer 
Because  his  Cakes  will  melt  in  Summer. 
His  Weighs,  they  say,  are  Light  but  Dark; 
And  Wise  Financial  Experts  mark 
The  Wretch  for  Legislative  Slaughter 
Because  his  Stock  is  wholly  Water; 
And  no  one  ever  mentions  Ice 
Except  to  rail  against  the  Price. 

THE     PLUMBER 

I  say!  it's  fierce  to  be  a  Plumber! 
He  scarcely  gets  a  Job  all  summer; 
But  when  the  Wintry  Blizzards  come, 
Why,  everybody  makes  him  plumb. 
He  is,  I  learn  from  Truthful  Sources, 
Compelled  to  take  Expensive  Courses 

[120] 


In  Building  Laws  and  Union  Rules 
And  Disremembering  his  Tools. 
But  though  his  Useful  Operations 
Preserve  our  Homes  from  Inundations, 
We  slur  his  Industry  and  Skill 
And  crudely  jest  about  his  Bill. 


THE     INTERIOR    DECORATOR 

Aroint  thee!  ruthless  Desolator 

Of  Happy  Homes,  O  Decorator! 

Speak  not  in  Language  recondite 

Of  Chippendale  and  Heppelwhite, 

Of  Silk  Brocade  or  Cartridge  Paper 

(Whichever  Stuff  is  now  the  Caper), 

Of  Window-seats,  of  Parquet  Floors, 

Of  Louis  Quinze  or  else  Quatorze! 

For  all  your  honeyfugling  Paean 

In  Praise  of  Arm-chairs  Jacobean 

Or  Highboys  carved  the  Lord  knows  when, 

You  shall  not  touch  my  Dusty  Den! 

[121] 


THE     BUSINESS    MAN 

This  Personage  (who's  mostly  Tired), 
The  Business  Man,  is  much  admired; 
Yet  not  for  Worlds  would  I  be  he 
Who  may  not  loaf  and  brood  like  me, 
Upon  the  Whyness  of  the  Isness, 
But  has  to  Buckle  down  to  Business, 
The  Crux  of  which,  from  all  I  hear, 
Is  Buying  Cheap  and  Selling  Dear — 
And  that's  Hard  Work;   and  so,  my  Client 
(In  England  called  "The  Weary  Giant") 
To  Get  Some  Rest  must  often  go 
And  see  a  Whirly-Girly  Show. 

THE     LAWYER 

I'd  rather  be  a  Timber-sawyer 
Or  Candy-peddler  than  a  Lawyer. 
The  Lawyer  looks  upon  the  Hills 
And  thinks  of  Nuncupative  Wills. 
The  Lawyer  views  the  Rolling  Prairie 

And  talks  of  Writs  of  Certiorari. 
[122] 


The  Lawyer  to  the  Lake  resorts 
And  reads  up  Kickleton  Ion  Torts. 
The  Lawyer  lies  where  Sylvan  Peace  is 
And  dreams  of  Mortgages  and  Leases. 
I'd  feel  Starvation's  Tooth  a-gnawing 
Before  I'd  get  my  Bread  by  Lawing! 

THE    MODISTE 

What  Dame  do  Men  esteem  the  least? 

The  Inexpressible  Modiste 

Who  designates  each  Foolish  Fashion 

That  Faddists  make  their  Transient  Passion. 

JTis  she  bids  Ladies  dress  in  droll 

Green  boots  that  lace  along  the  Sole, 

Abbreviated  Skirts  with  Gaiters 

That  greatly  edify  Spectators, 

Or  Evening  Gowns  devoid  of  sleeves 

And  otherwise  resembling  Eve's. 

And  Women  slavishly  obey  her. 

What's  stranger  still,  they  sometimes  pay  her! 


123 


PUSH-CARTS 

PUSH-CARTS,  hand-carts,  heaped  with  ends  and  orts, 
Dodging  under  motor-truck,  dray,  and  market 

van — 

They  are  pompous  galleons  that  sail  for  stated  ports, 
You  are  furtive  caravels  that  trade  where  best 
you  can. 

They  are  mighty  merchantmen  that  bowl  before 

the  breeze, 
Bound  for  humming  harbor  towns  where  bales 

are  bought  and  sold; 

You're  the  little  pinnaces  that  rove  uncharted  seas, 
Bartering  with  savages  for  emeralds  and  gold. 

Push-carts,  hand-carts,  lined  along  the  curbs, 
Bargaining  and  chaffering,  what  have  you  to  sell? 

Oranges  and  cabbages  and  aromatic  herbs, 

Fennel,  spinach,  celery,  and  artichokes  as  well; 


Calicoes  and  handkerchiefs,  slippers,  toys,  and  tins, 
Bedding,    books,    and   cooking  -  pots,   hats   and 

chin  a  ware, 

Music-sheets  and  jewelry,  stockings,  ties,  and  pins, 
Laces  for  the  maiden's  throat  and  ribbons  for 
her  hair! 

Push-carts,  hand-carts,  slowly  trundling  home, 
Tell  me  who  your  captains  are — captains,  aye, 
and  crews? 

Lively  sons  of  Attica,  swarthy  sons  of  Rome, 
Syrians,  Armenians,  and  heavy-bearded  Jews — 

Dffspring  of  the  mariners  that  sailed  the  purple 

fleets, 
Jostled  by  the  reckless  wheel  and  spattered  by 

the  mire, 
[ardy-souled    adventurers,    they   cruise   the   city 

streets  . 

Seeking  still  their  heritage,  the  heritage  of  Tyre! 


MEN 

FACTORY  whistles  blow  Dawn 

From  reverberant  throats. 
Hollow  and  mournfully  drawn 

Are  the  answering  notes 
Chorused  from  harbor  and  shore 

Through  the  fog-wreaths, — and  then 
Cityward  ceaselessly  pour 

Inundations  of  Men. 
East  from  the  Jerseys,  and  West 

From  the  sea-girded  plains, 
South  from  the  hills  is  the  quest 

Of  the  sinuous  trains; 
Thronged  is  each  wave-spanning  arc, 

And,  again  and  again, 
Shuttle  the  ferry-craft,  dark 

With  their  burthen  of  Men. 
Men!    Men!    Men! 


Heavy-browed,  eager-eyed, 
Tremulous,  resolute 
Men. 

Torrents  and  billows  of  life — 

And  alas  for  the  spray! 
Highway  and  house-top  are  rife 

With  the  turbulent  clay. 
Men!  in  the  rush  and  the  stir 

And  the  roar  of  the  street. 
Men!  in  the  factory's  whirr 

And  the  furnace's  heat. 
Men!  at  the  forges  that  ring 

And  the  shuttles  that  ply. 
Men!  on  the  girders  that  swing 

In  the  vault  of  the  sky. 
Swift  through  its  underground  lane 

Like  a  snake  to  its  den 
Burrows  the  glowering  train 

With  its  burthen  of  Men. 
Men!     Men!     Men! 

Pitiful,  glorious, 

Conquering,  desperate 
Men. 

[127] 


STROKE  THIRTEEN 

THERE'S  nothing  underneath  the  sun 

That  lends  to  life  a  greater  zest 
Than  finding  out  a  fellow's  done 

A  little  bit  beyond  his  best — 
The  sort  of  work  that  seems  to  show 

A  hidden  self  more  strong  and  fine, 
And  makes  the  worker  mutter  low, 

"That's  good;  too  good;  it  can't  be  mine.3 

Alas  for  proud  Icarian  wings! 

The  time  will  come,  and  come  it  must, 
When  ribald,  mocking  failure  brings 

The  soaring  spirit  down  to  dust; 
When  that  which  ranged  from  pole  to  pole 

Is  pent  in  limits  poor  and  mean. 
Remember  then,  despairing  soul, 

The  clock  can't  always  strike  thirteen. 
[1281 


So  build  the  bridge  or  mold  the  phrase 

Or  ply  the  brush  or  grip  the  helve 
And  learn  the  worth  of  blame  or  praise 

And  count  the  strokes  from  one  to  twelve. 
New  light  will  dawn  to  clear  the  eye, 

Brave  thought  will  come  to  guide  the  pen; 
Join  faith  to  work,  and  by  and  by 

The  clock  will  strike  thirteen  again. 


[129 


THE   IDOL-MAKER  PRAYS 

GREAT  god  whom  I  shall  carve  from  this  gray  stone 

Wherein  thou  liest,  hid  to  all  but  me, 
Grant  thou  that  when  my   art   hath   made  thee 
known 

And  others  bow,  I  shall  not  worship  thee. 
But,  as  I  pray  thee  now,  then  let  me  pray 

Some  greater  god — like  thee  to  be  conceived 
Within  my  soul — for  strength  to  turn  away 

From  his  new  altar,  when,  that  task  achieved, 
He,  too,  stands  manifest.     Yea,  let  me  yearn 

From  dream  to  grander  dream!   Let  me  not  rest 
Content  at  any  goal!     Still  bid  me  spurn 

Each  transient  triumph  on  the  Eternal  Quest, 
Abjuring  godlings,  whom  my  hand  hath  made, 
For  Deity,  revealed  but  unportrayed! 


130] 


A    FEW    CHILDREN 


MY   PLATFORM 

WHEN  I'm  elected  President 
(And,  anyhow,  I  may  be) 
I'll  give  a  doll  and  Teddy  bear 

To  every  infant  baby. 

And  each  little  puppy  shall  have  a  little  bone 
And  each  furry  kitten  a  saucer  of  its  own. 

I'll  make  a  law  for  Santa  Claus 

To  visit,  every  Christmas, 
Through  every  single  chimney 

From  Alaska  to  the  Isthmus. 
And  each  little  laddie  shall  have  a  kite  that  flics, 
And  each  little  lassie  a  doll  that  winks  its  eyes. 

There  sha'n't  be  any  nuisances 

Like  school  examinations. 
I'll  add  a  dozen  holidays 

And  double  all  vacations. 

And  each  little  hero  shall  have  a  sword  to  wear, 
And  every  little  maid  shall  have  a  ribbon  in  her  hair. 

[133] 


CLOTHES 

THE  little  Eskimoses, 

Whose  home  among  the  snows  is, 

Must  wrap  up  warm 

For  fear  a  storm 
Should  nip  their  ears  and  toeses. 

While  tiny  Javaneses 

Don't  dream  of  furs  and  friezes; 

Their  native  spot 

Is  much  too  hot 
For  even  light  chemises. 

But  small  United  Staters 
May  wear  the  furs  of  skaters, 

Or  flannel  suits 

And  tramping  boots, 
Or  overcoats  and  gaiters. 

[134] 


RUTH 

THERE  are,  they  tell  me,  lots  of  Ruths;  but  some 
where  in  between 

The  two  important  oceans  is  the  special  Ruth  I 
mean. 

She  has  two  eyes,  she  has  two  ears,  but  just  one 

mouth  and  nose, 
Ten    fingers    (thumbs    included),    and    the    same 

amount  of  toes. 

She's  taller  than  she  used  to  be,  and  is,  from  what 

I  hear, 
Exactly  one  year  older  than  she  was  this  time  last 

year. 

She  always  goes  to  bed  at  night;  she  goes  to  school 

by  day; 
She  plays  piano  pieces  in  a  most  emphatic  way. 

[135] 


She  wears  two  shoes  upon  her  feet,  one  hat  upon  her 

head; 
She's  fond  of  ice-cream,  candy,  and  of  butter  on 

her  bread. 

You  might  not  think  all  this  about  a  little  girl 
named  Ruth, 

But  it's  the  truth! 


[136] 


ANNABEL 

THEY  give  me  things  on  Christmas  Day 
And  tell  me,  "Run  along  and  play." 
But  where's  the  fun?    I  do  it  all! 
It's  me  that  has  to  bounce  the  ball 
And  beat  the  drum  and  jump  the  Jack; 
And  even  dollies  can't  talk  back. 
I  have  to  play  with  them,  you  see; 
They  don't  know  how  to  play  with  me! 

I  don't  want  drums  nor  bails  nor  sleds 
Nor  sawdust  dolls  with  china  heads! 
I  want  somebody  made  of  meat, 
And  who  can  laugh  and  cry  and  eat 
And  make  believe,  and  make  a  noise. 
Oh,  what's  the  good  of  stupid  toys? 
I  want  a  little  brother!     He 
Would  know  enough  to  play  with  me! 


137 


A  RHYME  FOR  JOSEPHINE 

OTHERS  sing  of  Rosaline, 
Edith,  Grace,  or  Clementine; 
Here's  a  song  for  Josephine: 

Tell  me  not  of  Seraphine, 
Isobel,  or  Wilhelmine! 
Sweeter  far  is  Josephine. 

Noble  is  her  name,  I  ween; 
Was  there  ever  other  queen 
Statelier  than  Josephine? 

Fair  she  is  and  blithe  of  mien; 
Bright  her  face;  and  crystalline 
Are  the  eyes  of  Josephine. 

Be  she  six  or  seventeen, 
Aye,  or  any  age  between, 
Here's  a  toast  to  Josephine! 


AWFUL  JOHNNY  BROWN 

I  LOVE  my  teacher,  yes  I  do! 

I  love  to  come  to  school  again 
And  see  my  little  playmates,  too, 

And  learn  how  much  is  ten  times  ten. 

And  all  of  us  is  glad  and  bright 
Except  that  Awful  Johnny  Brown, 

Who  says — who  says  he  dreamt  last  night 
He  saw  our  school  a-burning  down! 

The  book  where  Teacher  writes  our  names 
Was  burnt;  our  slates  was  smashed  and  broke; 

The  roof  and  walls  went  down  in  flames, 
Our  joggerfies  went  up  in  smoke — 

In  rolling  smoke  as  black  as  ink! 

Such  awful  dreams  /  never  had! 
But  Johnny  Brown — oh,  what  d'you  think? — 

That  Bad  Boy  says  that  he  was  glad! 

[139] 


WIND-IN-THE-HAIR 

AND 

RAIN-IN-THE-FACE 

WIND-IN-THE-HAIR  and  Rain-in-the-face 

Are  friends  worth  the  having,  and  yours  at  com 
mand; 

For  many's  the  hour  and  many's  the  place 
We've  frolicked  together  on  ocean  or  land. 

They'll  brighten  the  darks  of  your  gloomiest  mood ! 

They'll  strengthen  your  heart  with  their  boister 
ous  play, 
They'll  buffet  your  anger  until  it's  subdued, 

They'll  sport  with  your  sorrow  and  whisk  it  away. 

Don't  clutch  in   your   curls  with   that    grasp   of 

despair! 

A  tear  on  the  cheek  is  a  drop  out  of  place! 
"/'//  rumple  your  tresses!"  roars  Wind-in-the-hair. 
"Let  me  do  your  crying!"  trills  Rain-in-the-face. 
[  140] 


No  seven-league  boots  like  a  pair  of  old  shoes, 
No  wish-cloak  that  equals  a  rain-beaded  coat, 

To  take  you  away  from  the  Realm  of  the  Blues, 
To  give  you  the  will  that  grips  Care  by  the 
throat! 

How  petty  our  griefs  under  God's  open  sky! 

How  often  but  ghosts  of  a  conjuring  brain! 
How  quickly  they  dwindle,  how  lightly  they  fly, 

When  winnowed  and  washed  by  the  wind  and  the 
rain! 

Then,  on  with  your  shabbiest,  hardiest  wear! 
(The  kind  that  the  women-folk  term  "a  dis 
grace!") 

And  swing  down  the  highwaywith  Wind-in-the-hair, 
Or  splash  through  the  puddles  with  Rain-in-the- 
face! 


[141] 


A  POST-CARD  FROM  CAMP 

DEAR  Uncle  Bob: — 

It's  nice  in  camp. 

We  often  has  our  teas 
And  breakfusts,  when  it  isn't  damp, 

Out  here  among  the  trees. 

There's  moss  like  velvet  on  the  ground, 

And  pine  boughs  overhead, 
And  chickadees  come  cheeping  round 

To  beg  for  crumbs  of  bread. 

And  wunst  I  saw  a  chipmunk  run 

Acrost  the  cabin  floor. 
And  when  our  mush-and-milk  is  done 

We  always  comes  for  more. 


142] 


WILLIE  WET-FEET 

THREE  little  playmates  down  by  the  sea, 

" Willie,  Willie  Wet-feet  can't  catch  me!" 
Sport  with  the  billows,  wild  with  glee, 

"Willie,  Willie  Wet-feet  can't  catch  me!" 
Up  sweeps  a  wave,  but  they  shriek  and  flee. 

"Willie,  Willie  Wet-feet  can't  catch  me!" 
Here  comes  a  big  one — big  as  three! 

"Willie,  Willie  Wet-feet  can't  catch  me!" 
Run,  run  away  on  the  sandy  lee! 

"Willie,  Willie  Wet-feet  can't  catch  me!" 
Poor  little  girls,  they're  a  sight  to  see! 

Wicked  Willie  \Vet-feet  drenched  all  three! 


[143 


AROUND  THE  CLOCK  WITH  BABY 

7  A.M. 

DEAR  me!  though  hardly  half  awake, 

I  have  to  plan  my  daily  path! 
To  start  things  right,  I  guess  I'll  take 
A  Bath. 

9  A.M. 

On  milk,  the  sages  all  agree, 

They  fed  the  infant  Aristotle 
And  Shakespeare,  too.    Then  bring  to  me 
My  Bottle! 

II    A.M. 

To  stay  indoors  is  such  a  bore 

When  all  is  fresh  and  bright  outside! 

Bye-bye,  bye-bye!     I'm  going  for 
A  Ride. 


I    P.M. 

I  take  delight  in  volumes  rare; 

I  love  on  pictured  leaves  to  look; 
In  fact,  I  even  love  to  tear 
A  Book. 

3  P.M. 

When  things  are  very  bad  indeed, 

When  all  my  world  is  turned  awry, 
I  truly,  positively  need 
A  Cry. 

5  P.M. 

But  when  the  sun  is  down  the  west, 

My  little  bed  is  warm  and  deep; 
And  folks  do  say  I'm  at  my  best 
Asleep. 


10 


JUST  AS  IT  OUGHT  TO  BE 

THREE  little  babies  were  departing  for  a  ride, 
Three  little  babies  in  their  carriages  of  pride, 
Each  little  baby  on  the  pleasant,  sunny  side- 
Which  is  just  as  it  ought  to  be. 

One  little  baby  had  a  coverlet  of  silk, 
One  little  baby  had  a  bonnet  of  that  ilk, 
Each  little  baby  had  a  bottle  full  of  milk— 
Which  is  just  as  it  ought  to  be. 

One  little  baby  was  awaking  from  a  doze, 
One  little  baby  was  a-playing  with  its  toes, 
Each  little  baby  had  a  funny  little  nose — 
Which  is  just  as  it  ought  to  be. 

One  little  baby  had  a  woolly  pussy-cat, 
One  little  baby  had  a  bunny,  like  to  that; 
Each  little  baby  had  a  cheek  you  longed  to  pat- 
Which  is  just  as  it  ought  to  be. 


One  little  baby  had  a  cunning,  rosy  fist, 
One  little  baby  was  too  lovely  to  resist, 
Each  little  baby  was  imploring  to  be  kissed — 
Which  is  just  as  it  ought  to  be. 

One  little  baby  had  a  dimple  in  its  hand, 
One  little  baby  was  just  big  enough  to  stand, 
Each  little  baby  was  the  finest  in  the  land — 
Which  is  just  as  it  ought  to  be. 


[147] 


FINGERS  AND  TOES 

SUCH  funny  songs  my  grandma  sings! 

She  plays  such  funny  games; 
And,  oh!  she  calls  a  lot  of  things 

Such  awful  funny  names! 
She  raps  my  fingers,  one  by  one, 
And  says,  "Now  hear  me  tell 
Who  picked  the  currants  from  the  bun, 
And  pinched  the  cat,  as  well! 
Twas 

Tom  Thumper, 
Ben  Bumper, 
Long  Larum, 
Billy  Barum, 
And  little  Oker-bell!" 

And  when,  at  night,  Fve  taken  off 
My  shoes,  and  stockings,  too, 


She'll  pat  my  feet,  and  frown,  and  cough, 

And  say,  "It  wasn't  you 
That  kicked  the  pantry  door,  I  s'pose, 

And  scarred  and  scratched  it  so?" 
And  then  she'll  laugh,  and  tweak  my  toes, 
And  say,  "I  guess  7  know! 
Twas 
Toetipe, 
Pennywipe, 
Tommy  Thistle, 
Jimmie  Whistle, 
And  Baby  Trippingo!" 


[149 


MUMPS 

HOLIDAYS  come,  and  you're  sick; 

When  you  get  well,  there  is  school. 
Playthings  get  broken  so  quick! 

All  that  they  feed  you  is  grool. 

More  trouble's  coming,  and  that's 
Doctors  and  doses,  I  guess. 

Kittens  grow  up  to  be  cats. 
Life  is  a  terrible  mess! 


[150] 


WHERE'S  MY,  WAIT-A-MINUTE,  AND  ER- 

A  "WHERE'S  MY"  seldom  recollects 

The  whereabouts  of  his  effects, 

But  wonders  where  he  put  his  things, 

And  lives  a  life  of  rummagings; 

Forever  asking,  " Where's  my  hat?" 

And    "Where's    my    ball?"     and    "Where's    my 

bat?" 

Because  a  "Where's  My"  never  tries 
To  use  his  intellect  or  eyes. 

A  "Wait-a-Minute,"  day  and  night, 

Is  nearly  ready — never  quite. 

'Tis  strange  what  crises  will  occur, 

Delaying  him  (including  her); 

But  then,  "We've  all  the  time  there  is," 

And  your  time's  worth  much  less  than  his. 

He  has  so  much  to  do,  you  know; 

Besides,  his  watch  is  always  slow. 


The  "Er — "  unfailingly  will  miss 

The  word  he  wants,  and  talks  like  this: 

"I  went  to — er — ,  you  know!  and  met — 

Er — what-d'you-call-him  ? — I  forget. 

Well,  anyhow,  he  said  that  he 

Would — er — what  was  it? — Let  me  see! — " 

I  sometimes  think  that  I  prefer 

A  "Wait-a-Minute"  to  an  "Er— " 


[152] 


IN  DEFENSE  OF  CHILDREN 

THOUGH  parents  think  their  children  rude, 
Especially  about  their  food, 

And  call  their  table  manners  low, 
I  really  have  not  found  them  so. 

I  never  yet  have  known  a  boy, 
From  Skaneateles  to  Troy, 

From  Sacramento  to  New  York, 
Who  took  his  porridge  with  a  fork; 

Nor  any  girl  beneath  the  moon 

Who  managed  mince-pie  with  a  spoon; 

Nor  any  child,  in  all  my  life, 
That  ate  its  ice-cream  with  a  knife! 


153 


LIKES  AND  DISLIKES 

I  HAD  a  little  talk  to-day — 
An  argument  with  Dan  and  Ike: 

First  Dan,  he  said  'twas  not  his  way 
To  do  the  things  he  didn't  like. 

And  Ike,  he  said  that  Dan  was  wrong; 

That  only  cowards  dodged  and  hid. 
Because  it  made  him  brave  and  strong, 

The  things  he  didn't  like,  he  did! 

But  then  I  showed  to  Ike  and  Dan 
An  easy  way  between  the  two: 

I  always  try,  as  best  I  can, 

To  like  the  things  I  have  to  do. 


154] 


THE  ORGAN-GRINDER'S  MONKEY 

THE  funny,  furry  little  chap, 
His  coat  is  red  an'  so's  his  cap; 
He  gathers  pennies  where  he  can 
And  gives  'em  to  the  Organ  Man. 

He  isn't  wild,  but  nice  and  tame; 
And  Father  says  perhaps  he  came 
From  Africa  or  Zanzibar 
Where  crocodiles  and  lions  are, 

Or  else  Brazil  or  Borneo, 
Where  cocoanuts  and  plantains  grow. 
But  still  you  can't  be  sure,  you  see, 
So  when  he  blinks  his  eyes  at  me 

And  stands  upon  his  little  legs 
And  lifts  his  little  cap  and  begs, 
I  always  give  him  something,  since 
He  might  be  an  Enchanted  Prince! 


COMMANDMENTS  FOR   PARTIES 

EVERY  time  before  I  go 
To  a  party,  dressed  just  so, 

Mother,  in  her  rocking-chair, 
Smooths  my  frock  and  pats  my  hair, 

Straightens  every  bit  of  lace, 
Sees  that  every  curl's  in  place, 

Pins  my  gold-and-garnet  pin, 
Ties  a  bow  beneath  my  chin, 

Gives  my  nose  a  pair  of  tweaks, 
Kisses  me  on  both  my  cheeks; 

Then  she  says,  "Now,  don't  forget; 
Be  a  little  lady,  Pet. 

"When  your  little  friends  you  see, 
Drop  a  curtsey  prettily; 


"Play  with  them;  but,  honey-child 
Do  not  shout  and  don't  be  wild; 

"Do  not  romp  and  do  not  tease, 
Do  your  very  best  to  please. 

"At  the  table,  sit  up  straight, 
Keep  your  ringers  from  your  plate, 

"Use  your  fork,  and  do  not  take 
Twice  of  ice-cream,  jam,  or  cake. 

"Do  not  soil  your  pretty  frock; 
Come  right  home  at  four  o'clock. 

"When  it's  time  to  say  good-by, 
Don't  be  awkward,  don't  be  shy; 

"Smile,  and  don't  forget  to  add 
What  a  lovely  time  you've  had, — 

"Darling!    Please  don't  twist  your  hat!" 
Gracious!    Where's  the  fun  in  that? 


157] 


"WHEN  MUSIC,   HEAVENLY  MAID,  WAS 
YOUNG" 

SISTER  JANEY  just  despises 
Doing  finger  exercises. 
But  I  disagree  with  Janey; 
What  is  nicer  when  it's  rainy? 
When  the  room  is  warm  and  cozy, 
When  the  light  is  soft  and  rosy, 
All  my  fingers  feel  like  dancing, 
Up  and  down  the  keyboard  prancing, 
Like  a  crowd  of  children  skipping, 
Like  a  troop  of  fairies  tripping, 
Treading  black  notes,  treading  white  ones, 
Making  music  from  the  right  ones. 
When  I've  practised  scales  aplenty — 
Fifteen  minutes,  maybe  twenty — 
Still  I  love  to  sit  and  linger, 
Picking  tunes  with  one  forefinger, 
Lonely  songs  with  notes  that  quiver — 


"Old  Black  Joe"  and  "Suwanee  River," 
"Nellie  Gray"  and  lots  of  others; 
Merry  college  songs  like  Brother's; 
"Yankee  Doodle,"  "Mary,  Mary," 
"Home,  Sweet  Home"  and  "Tipperary." 
Then  I  send  my  fingers  straying 
All  around  like  gipsies,  playing 
Chords  just  any  way  they  strike  them — 
Funny  jangles,  but  I  like  them, 
Though  I  never  know  what's  coming. 
People  think  it's  only  strumming; 
But  I  wish  to  say  in  closing 
That  it  isn't — I'm  composing! 


159] 


A  SECRET  SOCIETY 

DOWN  in  a  nook  of  the  orchard  wall 
Soft  is  the  turf  and  the  grass  grows  tall; 
Low  hang  the  boughs  of  the  tree  that  shade: 
Three  little  girls  with  their  bows  and  braids- 
Bess  with  her  beads  in  a  shining  heap, 
Jill  with  a  doll  that  goes  to  sleep, 
Nell  with  a  tea-set,  bright  and  gay, 
Each  with  a  terrible  lot  to  say, 
Of  school  and  the  sums  that  are  awful  hard, 
Books,  and  the  games  of  the  playing-yard, 
Somebody's  frock  or  her  new  straw  hat, 
Till,  with  the  chatter  of  this  and  that 
(Nobody  knows  what  it's  all  about), 
Three  little  girls  are  quite  talked  out. 

Three  little  tongues  for  a  breath  are  still 
Down  by  the  wall;   when,  "Oh!"  cries  Jill, 
Clapping  her  hands  in  a  burst  of  glee, 
"Let's  have  a  Secret — just  us  three!" 
[160! 


"Let's  have  a  Secret!"  chimes  in  Bess. 
"Let's!"  echoes  Nell  from  her  tea-tray;  "Yes!" 
"Let's  have  a  Secret!"  chorus  all 
Down  in  the  nook  of  the  orchard  wall. 

Three  little  tongues  are  loose  again, 
Blithe  as  the  chirp  of  the  crickets,  when — 
"But,"  stammers  Bess  in  a  minor  key, 
"What  will  the— what  will  the  Secret  be?" 
Each  little  brow  has  a  puckered  frown, 
Each  little  head  is  bent  'way  down, 
Each  little  brain  is  puzzling  sore, 
Three  little  tongues  are  still  once  more. 

"Hush!"  says  the  breeze  where  the  corn-plumes 

nod; 

"Hum!"  say  the  bees  in  the  goldenrod; 
"Caw?"  from  the  pine-top  asks  the  crow; 
Chuckles  the  brook  where  the  alders  grow. 
Out  pops  a  chipmunk,  quick  as  a  whip, 
Skips  down  the  wall  with  his  "Chip,  chip,  chip!" 
Out  sings  a  thrush  from  the  cedar-tree, 
"What,  oh,  what  shall  the  Secret  be?" 


11 


161 


THE  MERRY-GO-ROUND 

IN  vagabond  glee  they  met,  those  three, 
For  the  haunts  of  childhood  bound, — 

The  ice-cream  man,  the  pin-wheel  man, 
And  he  of  the  merry-go-round. 

Their  clothes  were  worn,  their  beards  unshorn; 

But  I  knew,  when  I  looked  again 
With  keener  eyes  to  pierce  disguise, 

That  they  were  Faery  men. 

The  ice-cream  man  the  talk  began 

With  a  "Ha,  ha,  ho,  ho,  ho! 
"My  cart  I  roll  from  the  silver  Pole 

Where  the  red  auroras  glow. 

"In  the  ice-blue  lair  of  the  polar  bear 

With  cream  of  the  reindeer  fleet 
My  cakes  are  made  for  the  kindly  trade 

That  I  ply  in  the  parching  street." 
[162] 


Said  the  pin-wheel  man  with  the  face  of  tan, 
"I  have  been  where  the  comets  are; 

This  red  balloon  is  a  rising  moon, 
That  wheel  is  a  whirling  star. 

"When  my  wares  run  low,  again  I  go 
To  the  deeps  of  the  midnight  sky, 

From  the  Milky  Way  where  the  meteors  play 
To  heap  my  basket  high." 

"Ho!  mount  and  ride!"  the  third  one  cried — 
(Of  the  merry-go-round  was  he) ; 

"Oh,  mount  and  ride  my  steeds  of  pride 
That  steeds  of  magic  be! 

"The  byways  hum  as  the  children  come 
When  they  hear  my  organ  sound. 

What  road  is  there  they  do  not  fare 
That  ride  on  the  merry-go-round?" 

So  they  laughed  in  glee,  the  gipsy  three 
For  the  courts  of  childhood  bound, — 

The  ice-cream  man,  the  pin-wheel  man, 
And  he  of  the  merry-go-round. 


THE  SKEPTIC 

"You  don't  believe  in  Sandy  Claus?" 

"Naw! — not  the  kind  wot  comes  in  sleighs!" 
"But,  say!  there  mus'  be  one,  because — " 

"There  ain't!  such  things  is  only  plays." 
"You  didn't  git  no  presunts — pooh!" 

"Did  so;  a  lot;  a  sled,  a  drum — " 
"Then  some  one  must  uv  brung  'em  you." 

"Oh,  I  dunno;  they — kind  uv  come." 
"You  hung  your  stockin'  up,  all  right." 

"0'  course;  but  every  one  does  that.9' 
"An'  found  it  filled  up  good  an'  tight?" 

"Well,  yes;  but  wot  you  drivin'  at?" 
"Twas  filled — at  night — an'  how? — my  laws!" 

"Why,  mebbe — Oh,  there's  lots  uv  ways!" 
"You  do  believe  in  Sandy  Claus!" 

"But  not  the  kind  wot  comes  in  sleighs!" 


[164 


THE  DOLLY'S  REFORM 

SAID  the  Christmas  Dolly  on  the  fir-tree  bough, 
"No,  I  won't  look  pleasant,  'cause  I  don't  know 

how! 

For  the  room's  so  chilly,  and  my  hands  are  numb, 
And  I  feel  so  lonely,  and  I  feel  so  glum, 
And  1  can't  be  happy,  and  I  sha'n't  be!  but 
I  will  just  keep  scowling  with  my  lids  tight  shut!" 

Oh,  the  white  star  twinkled  on  the  tree's  tip-top, 
And  the  lop-eared  Bunny  flipped  a  wild  flip-flop, 
And  the  brown  Pup  waggled,  and  the  Jumping- 

Jack 

Kicked  his  right  foot  forward  and  his  left  foot  back, 
And  the  long-haired  Monkey  did  a  one-hand  vault, 
And  the  big  black  Teddy  threw  a  sommersault. 

Then  the  lights  were  lighted  and  the  room  grew 

warm, 
And  the  gold-lace  Captain  in  his  uniform 


Took  the  Army  riding  on  the  eight-wheeled  truck, 
With  the  tin  toy  Tiger  and  the  hardwood  Duck; 
And  the  Goat  went  coasting  on  the  new  red  sled, 
And  he  jumped  up  laughing  when  he  bumped  his 
head. 

So  the  Christmas  Dolly  had  a  great  surprise; 
But  she  smiled  politely,  and  she  blinked  both  eyes, 
And  she  seemed  as  happy  as  a  doll  could  be 
When  a  Small  Pink  Person  picked  her  off  the  tree. 
And  I've  always  wondered  (as  you  knew  I  would) 
How  so  bad  a  Dolly  could  become  so  good! 


[166] 


TWELFTHNIGHT  DIRGE 

DISMANTLED  lies  the  Christmas  tree, 

Its  duty  done; 
Of  all  its  baubles,  Time's  decree 

Preserves  not  one. 
The  gifts  of  late  arrayed  below 

Its  boughs  in  state — 
Those  rapture-giving  playthings — oh, 

We  mourn  their  fate. 
The  precious  Doll's  resplendent  hair, 

Alack,  is  shorn! 
The  Picture-book  of  pages  rare 

Is  rudely  torn. 
Three  days  the  battered  Ball  hath  lain 

In  cold  neglect; 
The  Motor  Car  and  Railway  Train 

Are  wholly  wrecked, 


And  Noah's  Ark  across  the  tide 

No  more  can  sail. 
The  Rocking-horse  hath  lost  his  pride — 

In  fact,  his  tail. 
Yet  wherefore  should  we  sadly  cling 

To  waning  joys, 
When  other  Christmases  shall  bring 

Unbroken  toys? 

Then,  though  small  hands  must  wreak 
their  will, 

As  in  our  day, 
Give  thanks,  above  the  wrack,  that  still 

God's  lambs  will  play. 


[168] 


THE  LITTLE  GIRL  UP-STAIRS 

WE  didn't  have  "apartments"  then — 

We  used  to  call  them  flats;    and  ours 
Was  simply  known  as  Number  Ten — 

Not  "Ayrwood  Arms"  or  "Wyndham  Towers." 
Our  childish  hearts  were  never  bent 

On  dances,  teas,  and  like  affairs, 
But  every  afternoon  I  went 

To  see  the  Little  Girl  Up-stairs. 

Two  long,  dark  flights,  and  then  her  door! 

A  magic  door  it  was  to  me. 
Oh,  I  was  five  and  she  was  four! 

A  rainbow  world,  an  opal  sea 
Were  ours  to  rove.     What  ports  we  made! 

What  dragons  slew  in  horrid  lairs! 
What  treasure,  grandly  won,  I  laid 

Before  the  Little  Girl  Up-stairs! 
[169] 


Her  hair — I  think  her  hair  was  brown. 

Her  eyes — I'm  sure  her  eyes  were  gray; 
They  had  a  trick  of  looking  down. 

Her  little  mouth  through  all  our  play 
Was  gravely  sweet,  yet  often  came 

A  smile  to  curve  it,  unawares. 
Her  name — her  name?    Ah,  yes;    her  name 

Was  just,  "the  Little  Girl  Up-stairs." 

Up  other  flights  I  clamber  still; 

Through  other  doors  I  make  my  way; 
In  other  games  I've  played  my  fill, 

And  right. well  worth  was  all  the  play. 
But  when  Fve  done  with  prose  and  rhyme, 

With  earthly  battles,  joys  and  cares, 
May  some  good  angel  help  me  climb 

To  meet  the  Little  Girl  Up-stairs. 


170 


TO    THE    LITTLEST 
OF    ALL 


TO  THE  LITTLEST  OF  ALL 

LITTLE  songs  are  prettiest, 
Little  tales  are  wittiest; 
The  little,  little,  little  cloud 

Is  whitest  in  the  west; 
Little  brooks  are  tunefullest, 
Little  lakes  are  moonfullest; 
The  little,  little,  little  trail 
Can  climb  the  mountain  best. 

Little  rooms  are  coziest, 
Little  hands  are  rosiest; 

The  little,  little,  little  home 

Is  Heaven's  dearer  part. 
Little  wiles  can  charm  a  man, 
Little  smiles  disarm  a  man; 
A  little,  little,  little  maid 
Can  nestle  in  his  heart. 

[173] 


LALAGE 

Depone  in  tutis  auribus 

FATHER  HORACE,  knowing  every 

Chord  and  tone  of  Woman's  heart, 
Teach  me,  long  thy  faithful  pupil, 

How  to  play  the  lover's  part; 
When  with  eyes  and  when  with  sighs 

And  how  with  vows  to  urge  my  plea, 
For,  thou  prince  of  jovial  lovers, 

I'm  in  love  with  Lalage, — 

Sweetly  singing,  sweetly  speaking, 
Sweet,  low-laughing  Lalage. 

Clearer  than  Bandusia's  fountain 
Are  the  eyes  that  vanquish  mine; 

Red  the  lips  that  bubble  gladness 
Like  thy  rich  Falernian  wine; 

Do  I  fear  their  merry  music — 
Blended  flute  and  violin 

[174] 


Welling  over  pearl  and  coral 

From  the  crystal  soul  within? — 
Laughing,  let  me  challenge  laughter; 
Laughing  shall  I  bend  the  knee, 
Sweetly  singing,  sweetly  speaking, 
Sweetly  laughing  Lalage! 


TWENTY 

A  STAR  is  the  brighter, 
A  pearl  is  the  whiter, 
A  song  is  the  clearer, 
A  dream  is  the  dearer, 
A  rose  is  the  sweeter, 
A  life  the  completer 
And  love  is  more  plenty, 
For  Vida  is  twenty. 


PIPES  OF  PAN 

"I  LOVE,  you  love,  we  love!" 
Trilled  the  pipes  of  Pan 

On  the  golden  lea,  Love, 
When  the  world  began. 

Birds  on  every  tree,  Love, 
Caught  the  mellow  notes. 

"I  love,  you  love,  we  love!" 
Pulsed  their  tiny  throats. 

"I  love,  you  love,  we  love!" 
Hear  the  echo  still 

By  the  summer  sea,  Love, 
On  the  quiet  hill! 

So  our  simple  glee,  Love, 

Ends  where  it  began. 
"I  love,  you  love,  we  love!" 

Trill  the  pipes  of  Pan. 
12  [J77] 


COME  BACK! 

THERE'S  naught  in  the  town  and  its  profitless  pleas 
ures, 

No  comfort  in  labor,  no  gladness  in  play; 
The  beat  of  my  bosom  but  wearily  measures 

The  heavy-winged  hours  that  you  are  away. 

A  world  that  was  golden  is  barren  and  lonely, 

The  skies  that  were  azure  are  leaden  and  black; 
You  are  Faith,  you  are  Hope,  you  are  Honor;  you 

only 

Are  Life  and  its  meaning!    My  dear  one,  come 
back! 

The  strength  I  rejoiced  in  is  futile  and  broken. 
Come  back  to  the  mountains  and  fields  that  we 

knew! 
Come   back!     Though  the  depth   of  the  soul   be 

unspoken, 
My  earth  and  my  heaven  hold  nothing  but  you. 


The  wind  of  our  wilderness,  failing  and  dying, 
The  billow  that  tosses  the  bubble  and  wrack, 

The  brant  in  their  multitude  summerward  flying 
Shall   bring   you   the   message,  "My  dear  one, 
come  back!" 

Come  back  from  the  coasts  where  the  dolphin  are 

leaping; 

Come  back  through  the  spray  of  a  jubilant  sea; 
Come  back  with  a  heart  that  was  left  in  your  keep 
ing; 
Come  back,  little  gipsy,  to  love  and  to  me! 


DESIGN 

THE  curving  shore  was  made  to  hold  the  sea, 
The  hollyhock  to  hold  the  drowsy  bee, 
The  columbine  to  hold  a  drop  of  dew, 
And  my  two  arms  were  fashioned  just  for  you, 


[180] 


SERENADE  TO  VIDA 

WHEN  the  slow 

Afterglow 

Leaves  the  hills  of  Ramapo, 

When  above  the  river's  flow 

The  owl  is  winging; 
Pure  as  myrrh, 
Breezes  stir 

Through  the  waving  plumes  of  fir, 
Wafting  balm  of  sleep  to  her 

That  knows  my  singing. 

Tender  bright 
Starry  light 

Softly  touch  her  pillow  white! 
Little  voices  of  the  night, 
Uplifted  clearly — 


Cricket  trill, 
Whippoorwill, 
Sigh  of  wind  across  the  hill, 
Echo  through  her  slumber  still, 
"He  loves  you,  dearly!" 


1 182] 


COMRADES 

COME  out!  oh,  little  comrade  of  the  tresses  flying 

free, 
Rejoicing  in  the  sunlight  that  was  made  for  you 

and  me! 

To  tarry  is  a  folly  and  to  worry  is  a  sin; 
Our  boat  is  on  the  river  and  the  tide  comes  in. 

What  roads  were  ever  fairer  than  the  gipsy  trails  we 

love, 
The  mossy  rock  beneath  us  and  the  flying  cloud 

above  ? 
We  mock  the  squirrel's  chatter  and  the  calling  of 

the  crows, 
Our  feet  are  on  the  mountains  and  the  West  Wind 

blows. 

The  snow-encumbered  forest  rims  a  frost-enchanted 
mere, 


The  hills  are  sharp  in  shadow  and  the  moon  is  bold 

and  clear; 
Your  cheek  is  rich  in  roses  that  the  touch  of  Winter 

brings; 
The  lake  is  frozen  midnight  and  the  bright  skate 

rings. 

But  when  we're  done  with  roving  under  heaven's 

mighty  dome, 
A  deeper  joy  is  waiting  in  our  bounded  realm  of 

Home; 

My  bosom  is  a  pillow  for  a  sunny  little  head — 
It's  cozy  by  the  hearthside  when  the  flame  glows 

red. 


BURMESE  LOVE-SONG 

THE  Moonbeam  wooed  in  velvet  night 
A  Lotus  bloom  that  dreamed  of  morn; 

The  Lotus  moved  her  petals  bright — 
My  Love  came  forth,  my  Soul  was  born. 

More  fair  than  any  flower  may  be, 
Her  face  is  pure  and  fine  as  dusk; 

Her  hair  is  night  above  the  sea, 

Her  fragrant  skin  is  sweet  as  musk. 

Her  robes  are  silk;  in  every  fold 

There  shines  a  pearl,  there  gleams  a  gem; 
Her  arms  are  clasped  with  hoops  of  gold; 

Her  eyes — what  stars  are  like  to  them? 

I  fear  the  breeze  at  close  of  day, 

I  tremble  when  the  dawn-wind  blows; 

Oh,  Zephyr,  woo  her  not  away — 

So  light  she  comes,  so  light  she  goes! 


OLD  WELSH  DOOR  VERSE 

HAIL  Guest!    We  ask  not  what  thou  art: 
If  Friend,  we  greet  thee,  hand  and  heart; 
If  Stranger,  such  no  longer  be; 
If  Foe,  our  love  shall  conquer  thee. 


186] 


AT  NUMBER  ELEVEN 

I  THINK  of  it  now  as  our  corner  of  Heaven — 
The  little  apartment  at  Number  Eleven! 
How  boldly  we  leased  it,  without  one  misgiving! 
How  laughingly  challenged  the  Problems  of  Living! 
Rejecting  all  counsel,  and  scorning  the  censure 
That  elders  bestowed  on  our  reckless  adventure, 
Like  two  merry  children  we  played  at  housekeep 
ing,— 
And  you  did  the  dusting  and  I  did  the  sweeping. 

No  palace  was  ever  so  tastefully  furnished, 
Nor  ever  was  silver  more  ardently  burnished. 
Our  kitchen  was  cleanly  beyond  a  suspicion; 
The  table  and  chair  in  my  study  were  Mission; 
A  Chippendale  desk  was  your  chiefest  of  treasures, 
And  few  were  our  worries,  and  simple  our  pleasures; 
Not  even  the  dishes  were  ever  too  trying, 
For  I  did  the  washing  and  you  did  the  drying. 


We  labored,  we  sorrowed,  we  triumphed  together; 
We  mapped  our  own  life-path,  regardless  of  whether 
Our  course  was  the  same  that  the  world  was  pur 
suing, 

For  little  we  bothered  what  others  were  doing. 
And  now  we  have  servants,  and  needs  to  employ 

them, 

And  manifold  comforts,  and  well  we  enjoy  them; — 
But — we  were  the  blithest  of  wedded  beginners 
When  I  got  the  breakfasts  and  you  cooked  the  din 
ners! 


188 


HOUSE  BLESSING 

BLESS  the  four  corners  of  this  house, 

And  be  the  lintel  blest; 
And  bless  the  hearth  and  bless  the  board 

And  bless  each  place  of  rest; 
And  bless  the  door  that  opens  wide  x 

To  stranger  as  to  kin; 
And  bless  each  crystal  window-pane 

That  lets  the  starlight  in; 
And  bless  the  rooftree  overhead 

And  every  sturdy  wall. 
The  peace  of  man,  the  peace  of  God, 

The  peace  of  Love  on  all! 


TRAIL  AND  ROAD 

Now  comes  tne  time  to  take  the  pack 
And  fare  on  lane  and  byway, 

On  mountain  trail  and  hunter's  track, 
On  country  road  and  highway. 

Unmeasured  lands  are  ours  to  know, 

And  many  waters  play  there; 
And  you  shall  tell  me  where  to  go, 
And  I  shall  find  the  way  there. 

Across  the  mossy  mountain  trail 
The  friendly  brook  is  flowing. 

Along  the  road,  by  wall  and  rail, 
The  golden  rod  is  glowing. 

On  track  and  trail  I  Dear  the  load 

And  trudge  ahead  to  guide  you; 
But  best  I  love  the  country  road, 

For  there  I  walk  beside  you. 
[190] 


FAUNA    AND    FLORA 


HOMES 

THE  Cormorant  builds  on  a  ledge  by  the  sea; 

The  Coot,  on  the  bank  of  a  runnel; 
The  Woodpecker  hunts  for  a  hole  in  a  tree; 

The  Kingfisher  digs  him  a  tunnel. 

The  Barn-swallow  nests  in  the  haunts  of  the  tame; 

The  Grouse,  in  the  brush  and  the  cumber; 
The  Country  Mouse  lives  in  a  Home  with  a  Name; 

The  City  Mouse  dwells  at  a  Number! 

The  Bumblebee  hives  in  a  hole  in  the  ground; 

The  Wasp  has  a  mansion  of  paper; 
The  Ant  may  be  found  in  a  neat  little  mound; 

The  Clothes  Moth  resides  with  the  draper. 

The  Rattlesnake  camps  on  the  Prairie-dog's  claim; 

The  Bat,  in  the  cliff-hollow's  umber; 
The  Freeman  inhabits  a  Home  with  a  Name; 

The  Slave,  but  a  House  with  a  Number! 
13  I  J93  J 


The  fleet-footed  Caribou  rests  in  the  brake; 

The  Mole,  at  the  end  of  a  furrow; 
The  Beaver  abides  in  a  hut  on  the  lake; 

The  Woodchuck  is  warm  in  a  burrow. 

Remote  from  the  camp-fire's  flickering  flame, 
The  Bear  in  his  cavern  may  slumber; 

And  you're  in  the  hills  in  a  Home  with  a  Name- 
But  I'm  on  a  Street  at  a  Number! 


[194] 


MARCH  MANY-WEATHERS 

MAD  March  Many-Weathers 

Blusters  in; 
Wood-birds  fluff  their  feathers, 

Buds  begin; 
Bound  brooks  burst  their  tethers; 

Keenly  blow 
Rollicking  winds  that  rout  the  snow. 


[195] 


HOW  THE  BIRDS  CAME 

AN    INDIAN    LEGEND 

ALL  summer  long  the  forest  trees 

Had  raised  their  leaves  for  dew  and  breeze; 

But  colder  grew  the  autumn  sun 

And,  slowly  fading,  one  by  one 

The  leaves  came  drifting  down  the  air 

Till  soon  the  boughs  would  all  be  bare. 

What  sadness  comes  with  fall  of  leaf! 
The  great  trees  bent  their  heads  in  grief 
And  raised  their  knotted  arms  to  call 
In  prayer  on  Him  Who  made  them  all: 
"O  Gitche  Manitou  above, 
Shall  all  be  lost  of  these  we  love?" 

In  thunder  roll  and  lightning  flame 
The  Mighty  Spirit's  answer  came: 
"Behold,  my*  forest,  tempest-tossed, 
How  all  must  change,  yet  naught  be  lost!" 


And  while  they  heard  the  Master's  words, 
The  drifting  leaves  were  changed  to  birds! 

The  leaves  of  willow  fluttered  down 
As  Finches,  tawny,  green,  and  brown. 
The  red  and  russet  leaves  of  oak 
Became  the  Thrush  and  Robin  folk. 
The  golden  beech-leaves  learned  to  fly 
As  Yellowbirds  athwart  the  sky; 
While  all  the  maple  leaves  that  turned 
In  changing  hues  that  glowed  and  burned 
Took  wing  across  the  wooded  knolls 
As  Tanagers  and  Orioles! 

So,  every  year  when  laughing  Spring 
Dissolves  the  snows,  on  eager  wing 
The  birds  of  forest,  hill,  and  glen 
Return  to  know  their  trees  again, — 
To  build  their  nests,  to  peer  and  stir 
Among  the  leaves  of  which  they  were; 
And  from  those  boughs  where  once  they  grew 
They  sing  to  Gitche  Manitou. 


197 


FOLK    RHYMES 

THE     RABBIT 

LITTLE  cow  with  leather  horn, 
Creep  the  hedge  and  crop  the  thorn; 
Leave  the  kale  and  spare  the  corn, 
Little  cow  with  leather  horn! 

SPRING'S   VANGUARD 

The  Bat,  the  Bee,  the  Chickadee, 
The  Bluebird  and  the  Swallow, 
The  Crackle  harsh  above  the  marsh — 
And  all  the  rest  may  follow! 

AN    APRIL    FOOL 

" Shell- a-mud,  Shell-a-mud,  put  out  your  horns! 
Buds  on  the  branches  and  leaves  on  the  thorns. 
Guinevere's  daughter  has  come  into  town, 
Gold  is  her  petticoat,  green  is  her  gown!" 

Out  thrust  the  head  of  the  queer  little  snail; 
Brown  was  the  hillside  and  bare  was  the  dale; 
Nothing  she  saw  but  the  yellow  Lent-lily — 
"Guinevere's  daughter"  is  Daffydowndilly! 


MIKKO  THE  SQUIRREL 

A    PASSAMAQUODDY    INDIAN    LEGEND 

MIKKO  the  Squirrel,  his  tale  I  rehearse, 

Whose  morals  are  doubtful,  whose  language  is  worse. 

When  fresh  was  our  world  from  the  Manitou's  hand, 
When  Gluskap  the  Mighty  was  lord  of  the  land, 
Before  there  was  wisdom  in  Mowene  the  Bear, 
Or  timorous  caution  in  Wapoos  the  Hare, 
Or  Ahdook  the  Red  Deer  had  learned  to  be  fleet, 
Or  snow-shoes  were  fixed  on  the  Caribou's  feet, 
Or  Askook  the  Serpent  was  Death  in  the  Hills, 
Or  Kag  the  slow  Porcupine  quivered  with  quills, 
Or,  frighting  the  Minnows,  that  helmet  of  dread 
The  Kingfisher's  war  bonnet  grew  on  his  head, — 
The  terror  of  beasts  and  the  terror  of  men 
Was  Mikko  the  Squirrel  who  dwelt  in  the  glen! 

For  long-toothed  was  Mikko  and  ruddy  of  hair, 
As  fierce  as  the  Panther,  as  huge  as  the  Bear; 
[  199] 


And,  leaping  and  pouncing  and  snapping  his  tail, 
He  ravaged  the  forest,  he  ravaged  the  vale; 
The  wilderness  shivered  when,  savage  and  grim, 
He  uttered  his  war  cry  of  "Chim,  chim,  chim, 
dbimP 

Now  Mikko  the  Squirrel  was  swollen  with  pride; 
And  out  from  the  forest  he  sallied  and  cried, 
"Oh,  come  in  youc  prowess  and  come  in  your  might! 
O  Gluskap  the  Feeble,  I  dare  you  to  fight!" 
Then  Gluskap  the  Mighty  strode  forth  on  the  plain; 
He  seized  upon  Mikko,  who  struggled  in  vain; 
In  spite  of  his  anger,  relentless  and  calm, 
He  stroked  him  and  stroked  him  with  finger  and 

palm, 

He  stroked  raging  Mikko,  the  ruddy  of  hue, 
That  smaller  and  smaller  and  smaller  he  grew, 
Till  even  the  Marten  that  dwells  in  the  tree, 
Aye,  even  the  Rabbit,  is  greater  than  he! 
Then  gently  said  Gluskap,  "Small  Brother  of  mine, 
Your  food  be  the  seed  in  the  cone  of  the  pine; 
The  fruit  of  the  hazel  I  give  you  to  eat; 

The  nut  be  your  quarry,  the  acorn  your  meat. 

[200] 


And  since  you  are  wrathful,  to  lessen  the  smart 
That  impotent  fury  shall  breed  in  your  heart, 
I  charge  you,  when  angered  at  beast  or  at  man, 
To  say,  'Chim,  chim,  chim,  chim!'  as  fast  as  you 
can!" 

So  Mikko  the  Squirrel,  the  jest  of  the  Jay, 
As  small  as  the  smallest  that  once  were  his  prey, 
Still  chatters  and  scolds  from  his  perch  on  the  limb 
And    utters   his   war-cry  of  "Chim,  chim,  chim, 
chim!" 

His  manners  are  awful,  his  language  as  bad, 
But  vain  is  the  fury  of  Mikko  the  Mad! 


201 


PUSSY-WILLOWS 

MORE  soft  than  press  of  baby  lips 
They  fleck  the  russet  willow-slips 
Before  the  bluebirds  hither  wing — 
These  first,  faint  footfalls  of  the  Spring. 


[  202  ] 


THE    CHIPMUNK 

AN     INDIAN     LEGEND 

A  CHIPPER  little  Chippeway  ran  out  to  gather  chips 
Beneath  the  friendly  sycamore,  among  the  hazel 

slips; 
The  council-fire's  manager,  he  ravaged  grove  and 

thicket, 

As  merry  as  a  tanager,  as  lively  as  a  cricket. 
The  sun  had  burned  his  skin,  and  turned 

Its  hue  to  copper-brown; 
His  dancing  foot  o'er  stump  and  root 

Was  free  as  thistle-down; 
His  flashing  eyes  were  fireflies; 

And,  sprightly  as  a  whip, 
He  frisked  along  and  sang  his  song 
Of  "Chip!  chip!  chip!" 

A  witch — a  dreadful  harridan! — was  hidden  in  the 

shaws; 

[203] 


She  pounced  upon  the  little  man,  she  seized  hin 

with  her  claws. 
In  vain  he  begged.    She  grumbled,  "No!"    At  las 

his  cries  for  aid 
Awoke   the   silent   Maneto   that   ruled   the   leaf} 

glade. 
His  magic  might  that  wizard  wight 

Aroused  at  mercy's  call; 
And,  swift  as  flame,  the  boy  became 

A  squirrel,  lithe  and  small. 
To  hungry  jaws  and  clutching  claws 

The  captive  gave  the  slip, 
And  flashed  away  beneath  a  spray 
With  "Chip!  chip!  chip!" 

Along  the  splintered  tumble-rail  on  bounding  foot 

he  flies — 
That  saucy-whiskered  tawny-tail  with  merry,  bead} 

eyes. 
Now  follow  in  the  track  of  him,  and  see ! — a  triple 

stripe 
Along  the  furry  back  of  him  recalls  the  witch's 

gripe. 

[204] 


He  loves  the  shade  of  grove  and  glade, 

The  sunny  fence  of  stone; 
The  hemlock  tops,  the  hazel-copse, 

The  pines,  are  all  his  own. 
And  here  he  whisks  and  there  he  frisks 

On  boughs  that  lightly  dip; 
To  all  the  dale  he  tells  the  tale 

Of  "Chip!  chip!  chip!" 


205 


COLUMBINES 

LATE  were  we  sleeping 

Deep  in  the  mold, 
Clasping  and  keeping 
Yesterday's  gold — 
Hoardings  of  sunshine, 

Crimson  and  gold; 

Dreaming  of  light  till  our  dream  became 
Aureate  bells  and  beakers  of  flame — 
Splashed  with  the  splendor  of  wine  of  flame. 
Raindrop  awoke  us; 
Zephyr  bespoke  us; 
Chickadee  called  us, 
Bobolink  called  us— 
Then  we  came. 


WREN-HOUSE  TO  LET 

THIS  house  was  built,  Miss  Jenny  Wren, 
For  you,  your  mate,  and  fledglings  ten, 
With  solid  walls  and  airy  roof, 
Salubrious  and  weather-proof. 
The  door,  just  large  enough  for  you, 
Will  let  no  rowdy  Sparrow  through; 
That  row  of  spikes  in  sharp  array 
Will  keep  marauding  Cats  away; 
Our  garden-beds  will  furnish  food 
For  all  your  ever-hungry  brood 
(We  highly  recommend  the  Worms). 
So  be  our  tenant;  name  your  terms. 
The  rent  ?    No,  not  one  feather  tip — 
Just  neighborly  companionship! 


[207] 


THE  WICKED  W-REN* 

THE  little  W-ren  is  a  wicked  w-retch; 
He  cannot  be  good  for  a  day  at  a  stretch; 
Whenever  a  Doodlebug  crosses  his  path 
He  snaps  it!  w-reaking  his  awful  w-rath. 

W-rangling,  he  worries  his  Brothers  in  Song, 
W-recking  their  nests,  which  is  plainly  w-rong. 
Such  deeds  are  w-rought  by  the  wicked  W-ren — 
W-riting  their  record  w-renches  my  pen. 

But  just  let  me  catch  him! — for  though  he  is  litl 
And  quick  to  w-restle,  w-riggle,  w-rithe, 
With  supple  w-rist  I  will  settle  him  then, 
W-ringing  the  neck  of  the  wicked  W-ren! 

*  Pronounced  "Wur-ren." 


208] 


THE  WILDWOOD  LOON 

A    FABLE    FOR   JESTERS 

THE  loon  has  to  laugh  till  he  dies! 
He  laughs  when  he  swims  or  he  flies; 
He  laughs  on  the  stream  and  lagoon. 
"Ha,  ha!"  laughs  the  wildwood  loon. 

The  loon  thought  the  world  was  a  jest; 
He  laughed  at  his  mate  on  her  nest; 
He  laughed  at  the  sun  and  the  moon. 
"Ha,  ha!'*  laughed  the  wildwood  loon. 

He  laughed  at  the  deer  and  the  bear, 
He  laughed  at  the  mink  and  the  hare, 
He  laughed  at  the  fox  and  the  coon. 
"Ha,  ha!"  laughed  the  wildwood  loon. 

He  laughed  on  the  lake  and  the  sound; 
He  laughed  and  he  laughed,  till  he  found 
14  t 2°9  1 


That  laugh  his  perpetual  tune! 

"Ha,  ha!"  laughed  the  wildwood  loon. 

In  grief  and  in  pain  and  in  dearth 
He  must  laugh  without  heart,  without  mirth; 
He  must  laugh,  though  to  wail  were  a  boon. 
"Ha,  ha!"  laughs  the  wildwood  loon. 


[  210 


THE  HOME-BUILDERS:  A  BIRDOLOGUE 

(The  time  is  May.     The  scene  is  any  orchard.     The 

characters  are  Lord  and  Lady  Baltimore, 

the  Orioles) 

Lord  Baltimore.  So  here  we  are,  my  sweet,  and  glad 

We  came;    for,  while  'tis  true  we  had 

A  charming  winter  holiday 

In  Southern  climes,  when  gentle  May 

Has  come,  our  cooler  Northern  sky 

I  much  prefer. 

Lady  Baltimore.     And  so  do  I! 
The  very  heart  within  me  quakes 
To  think  about  those  dreadful  snakes 
Among  the  swamps!     I  can't  forget 
That  mottled  wretch  with  eyes  of  jet 
Who  swung  his  ugly  head  above 
Our  nest — 

[211] 


Lord  B.     There!  calm  yourself,  my  love; 
He  isn't  here,  and  if  he  were 
Fd  teach  him  manners! — Well,  bestir! 
Tis  May,  'tis  May!  my  dearest  one; 
The  sun  is  bright,  our  journey's  done; 
The  grass  is  green;    the  orchard  trees, 
In  bloom,  are  all  alive  with  bees; 
The  gipsy  wind  shall  help  us  plan 
A  frolic  flight— 

Lady  B.  How  like  a  man! 

To  think  of  play  and  idle  flight 
Before  we'd  even  found  a  site 
To  build  our  proper,  hanging  nest! 

Lord  B.    Ah,  well,  I  thought  you  needed  rest; 
But,  since  you're  anxious,  let's  prepare: 
Now,  that  young  maple  over  there — 

Lady  B.    Oh  no,  indeed!    It's  much  too  near 
The  house. 

Lord  B.        That  leafy  birch — 

[212] 


Lady  B.  MY  dear> 

It's  far  too  low. 

Lord  B.  The  sycamore? 

Lady  B.     Too  bare. 

Lord  B.  The  oak? 

Lady  B.  I've  said  before 

That  oaks  have  branches  far  too  rough; 
Besides,  they  never  sway  enough 
To  rock  the  babies. 

Lord  B.  How  about 

That  spreading  elm?     It's  just  without 

The  orchard  wall;   that  dizzy  height 

No  cat  may  climb;    those  branches  light 

No  boy  dare  trust;    besides,  you  see, 

My  office,  in  the  cherry-tree, 

Is  close  at  hand. 

Lady  B.  You  don't  suppose 

Those  thievish  jays  or  hungry  crows— 

[213] 


Lord  B.     I'd  like  to  see  them  go  so  far 
As  just  to  peep! 

Lady  B.  How  brave  you  are! 

Lord  B.     Well,  then,  it's  settled? 

Lady  B.  Yes,  I  trust 

Your  judgment,  dear. 

Lord  B.  My  love,  we  must 

Be  sure  to  find  the  very  best 

Of  grass  and  moss  to  build  our  nest, 

With  threads  from  Dobbin's  tail  and  mane 

To  weave  it  close  against  the  rain; 

With  thread  as  soft  as  spiders  spin, 

And  wool  to  line  it  warm  within; 

With  raveled  bits  of  silken  clues, 

With  tangled  yarn  of  many  hues; 

And,  last,  to  make  it  doubly  fair, 

Some  strands  of  Edith's  golden  hair. 


THE  BALTIMORE  ORIOLE 

LORD  BALTIMORE  has  come!    I  know 
That  mellow-noted  bugle-horn! 

He  hunts  the  bee  above  the  sloe, 
The  snail  upon  the  thorn. 

Then  curl  beneath  the  wasted  leaf, 
Base  caitiff  slug!    thy  doom  is  nigh! 

Marauding  worm,  thou  orchard  thief, 
Beware  his  eager  eye! 

Lord  Baltimore  is  gay,  I  ween, 
In  livery  of  black  and  gold; 

He  flits  among  the  branches  green 
Right  gallant  to  behold. 

A  feathered  athlete,  lithe  and  light, 
He  frolics,  hovers,  lilts  and  swings; 

Anon,  anon,  in  pure  delight 
Of  air-borne  life,  he  sings. 


Lord  Baltimore,  a  lover  true, 

Has  hither  brought  a  gentle  bride 

Of  softer  note  and  sadder  hue; 
Together,  side  by  side, 

Where  wattled  branches  lift  a  roof, 
With  creeper,  withe,  and  raveled  string 

He  weaves  the  warp  and  she  the  woof 
To  frame  a  cradle-swing; 

And  there,  beneath  the  mother's  breast, 
All  warm  and  safe  from  lurking  wrong 

Her  purple-tinted  eggs  shall  rest — 
Four  spheres  of  future  song. 

Lord  Baltimore  is  stern  in  fight 

Should  danger  menace  brood  or  dame, 

As  well  befits  the  doughty  knight 
Who  bears  that  lofty  name; 

His  rush  is  swift;  and  strong  the  blow 
And  sharp  the  beak  when  honor  calls! 

Then,  braggart  jay  and  thievish  crow, 
Avoid  his  castle  walls! 

\2l6] 


The  prince  of  summer's  tuneful  bands, 
He  cleaves  the  air  with  golden  oar; — 

Thrice  welcome  to  thy  Northern  lands, 
O  brave  Lord  Baltimore! 


TULIPS 

BRAVE  little  fellows  in  crimsons  and  yellows, 
Coming  while  breezes  of  April  are  cold, 

Winter  can't  freeze  you;  he  flies  when  he  sees  you 
Thrusting  your  spears  through  the  redolent  mold, 

Jolly  Dutch  flowers  rejoicing  in  showers, 

Drink!  ere  the  pageant  of  Spring  passes  by! 

Hold  your  carousals  to  Robin's  espousals, 
Lifting  rich  cups  for  the  wine  of  the  sky! 

Dignified  urbans  in  glossy  silk  turbans, 

Burgher-like  blossoms  of  gardens  and  squares, 

Nodding  so  solemn  by  fountain  and  column, 
What  is  the  talk  of  your  weighty  affairs? 

Pollen  and  honey  (for  such  is  your  money), 

Gossip  and  freight  of  the  chaffering  bee, 
Prospects  for  growing,  what  colors  are  showing, 

News  of  rare  tulips  from  over  the  sea  ? 
[218! 


Loitering  near  you,  how  often  I  hear  you, 
Just  ere  your  petals  at  twilight  are  furled, 

Laugh  through  the  grasses  while  Evelyn  passes, 
"There  goes  the  loveliest  flower  in  the  world!" 


219] 


HOW-  THE  FEUD  STARTED 

BEFORE  there  were  Pineapples,  Peaches,  or  Plums, 
The  Dog  and  the  Cat  were  Companions  and  Chums. 

(They  lived  in  a  Highly  Respectable  Grotto, 
Where  "God  Bless  Our  Home"  was  their  Favorite 
Motto.) 

The  Dog  had  a  Parchment,  a  Parchment  had  he, 
Proclaiming  his  Right  to  be  Happy  and  Free. 

(This  Charter  was  signed  by  the  Patriarch  Noah, 
And  Witnessed  in  Form  by  the  Goat  and  the  Boa.) 

The  Dog  went  a-hunting  on  Mount  Ararat; 
The  Parchment  he  left  in  the  Care  of  the  Cat. 

(His  Trust  in  the  Cat  was  Complete  and  Abiding. 
The  Dog,  then  as  ever,  was  Much  Too  Confiding.) 

[220] 


Fhe  Cat,  who  was  always  a  Rover  in  Soul, 

jlrew  bored  with  the  Cavern  and  went  for  a  Stroll. 

[Beguiled  by  the  Song  of  the  Birds  in  the  Bowers, 
rle  ambled  and  rambled  for  Hours  and  Hours.) 

Fhen  out  from  their  Crannies  the  Mouse  People 

crept, 
\nd  Lunched  on  the  Parchment  that  Puss  should 

have  kept! 

[They  flocked  with  their  Children,  their  Nephews 

and  Nieces; 
Fhey  shredded  the  Charter  and  ate  up  the  Pieces.) 

vVhen  Home  came  the  Dog  near  the  Close  of  the 

Day, 
Fhe  Last  of  his  Freedom  was  whisking  away! 

[He    leaped!  —  but    the    Tails    disappeared    in    a 

Flicker. 
The  Dog  may  be  Quick,  but  the  Mouse  Folk  are 

Quicker.) 

[221] 


When  Home  strolled  the  Cat  as  the  Twilight  gre 

dim, 
The  Dog  paid  the  Utmost  Attention  to  Him! 

(The  Cat,  who  in  Climbing  was  always  a  Leader, 
Escaped  by  a  Whisker  and  ran  up  a  Cedar.) 

So,  seeking  his  Vengeance — and  justly,  at  that — 
The  Dog,  through  the  Ages,  still  chases  the  Cat. 

(The  Cat,  with  Equivalent  Justification, 

Has  chosen  the  Mouse  as  his  Favorite  Ration.) 


222  ] 


THE  DAISY 

LITTLE  Peg-a-Ramsey 
With  the  yellow  hair, 

Double  ruff  about  her  neck 
And  ne'er  a  frock  to  wear, 

Opens  to  the  sunbeam, 

Curtsies  to  the  bee, 
Dances  when  the  bobolink 

Awakes  the  world  with  glee. 

Little  Peg-a-Ramsey, 
Say,  before  you  close, 

Do  you  ever  droop  your  head 
And  wish  you  were  a  rose? 

Little  Peg-a-Ramsey 

Nodding  in  the  wheat, 
Could  it  make  you  prettier 

To  call  you  "Marguerite"? 
[223] 


THE  BELTED  KINGFISHER 

HE  makes  the  weathered  willow  stump 
A  sentry  tower  and  throne; 

From  broken  dam  to  alder  clump 
The  stream  is  all  his  own. 

But,  friend  to  sport,  no  churl  is  he! 

Whene'er  I  come  in  view 
His  jolly  rattle  welcomes  me, 

For  I'm  a  fisher,  too. 

I  watch  him  poise  on  rapid  wings 

Above  the  rippled  pool 
Where,  hither-thither,  flits  and  swings 

The  flashing  minnow-school. 

I  see  him  dart,  a  feathered  spear, 

Upon  the  silver  prey, 
Then  slowly  flap  across  the  weir 

And  bear  his  prize  away. 

[224] 


Good  fishing!  azure  water-sprite, 
To  you  and  all  your  clan. 

Good  fishing!  little  belted  knight, 
My  brother  fisherman. 

May  never  hurt  or  harm  befall 

Your  leafy  solitude, 
Your  deeply  tunneled  castle  hall, 

Or  tousle-headed  brood! 


15  [  225  ] 


THE  FLOUNDER 

"HURRY!"  hailed  the  Bluefish.     "Hurry!"  called 

the  Skate; 
"Hurry!"  puffed  the  Porpoise.    "Up!  it's  growing 

late 
Rise!     you    tardy     Flounder;     swim    to    Barren 

Key; 
There  we  choose  a  ruler — King  of  all  the  Sea!" 

Swift  they  passed  above  him  through  the  foamy 

scud. 

Lazily  the  Flounder  lifted  from  the  mud; 
Sleepily  the  Flounder  left  his  briny  bed: 
"Hurrying  is  vulgar.    Time  enough!"  he  said. 

"Vagabonds  of  Ocean,  what  will  haste  avail! 
7  shall  scrub  my  silver,  deftly  part  my  tail; 
Who  in  worth  or  beauty  may  contend  with  me? 
All  shall  vote  me  ruler — Monarch  of  the  Sea!'* 
[226] 


When,  at  last,  the  Flounder  reached  the  sheltered 

bay, 

Deep  was  his  amazement,  deeper  his  dismay. 
Chorused  all  the  sea-folk,  gathered  in  a  ring, 
"Honor  to  the  Herring!  He  shall  be  our  King!" 

Proudly  swam  the  Herring,  leading  forth  his  clan 
(Worthiest  of  fishes,  bountiful  to  Man). 
Envious,  the  Flounder  rolled  his  eyes  and  sneered: 
"Oh,    is    that    your    ruler?      What    a    king!"    he 
jeered. 

Scowling  like  a  school-boy,  sullen  as  a  shrew, 
How  he  curled  and  twisted  all  his  face  askew, 
Crooked  as  a  crawfish!    But — oh,  cruel  fate!— 
When    he   would,    he    could    not    pull    his    visage 
straight! 

Angered  at  his  rudeness,  rose  the  mighty  Whale; 
"Thwack!"  upon  the  Flounder  smote  that  dreadful 

tail, 

Made  him  as  a  pancake,  deep  upon  his  face, 
Like  a  butter-pattern,  stamped  that  weird  grimace! 

[227] 


That's  the  way  it  happened;  that's  the  reason, 

Honey, 
Why    the    poor,    flat    Flounder    looks    so    awful 

funny! 


[228] 


ROBIN'S  WHEAT 

IN  Brittany,  in  Brittany 

The  summer-time  is  sweet 
With  robin's  mellow  litany 

And  fields  of  waving  wheat; 

In  Brittany,  in  Brittany 

A  simple  tale  is  told 
When,  pearled  with  rain,  the  sunlit  grain 

O'erwhelms  the  land  with  gold. 


There  came  a  band  of  holy  men 

In  russet  gowns  or  gray, 
To  teach  the  tribes  of  wood  and  fen 

To  labor  and  to  pray. 

They  cleared  the  wild,  they  trained  the  vine; 
The  stones  that  strewed  the  moor 
[229] 


They  heaped,  and  raised  a  lowly  shrine 
To  Him  Who  loves  the  poor. 

And  much  they  longed  to  till  the  plain 

With  mattock,  plow,  and  hoe, 
But  naught  they  had  of  hoarded  grain 

Nor  any  seed  to  sow. 

Then  spake  their  abbot:  "Soon  or  late, 

Faith  conquers  every  need; 
Do  ye  but  draw  the  furrow  straight 

And  God  will  send  the  seed." 

With  trust  and  strength  they  drove  the  share, 

They  turned  the  loamy  clod; 
They  made  the  furrow  deep  and  fair 

And  left  the  rest  to  God. 

When  red  was  all  the  glowing  West 

As  sacramental  wine 
There  came  a  bird  of  crimson  breast 

And  perched  upon  the  shrine, 


Within  his  bill  of  golden  brown 

A  heavy  head  of  wheat; 
He  dropped  the  fruitful  burden  down 

Before  the  abbot's  feet. 

The  precious  kernels,  one  by  one, 

The  friars  laid  in  place. 
The  green  blades  leaped;  beneath  the  sun 

The  harvest  throve  apace; 

And  year  by  year  it  multiplied 

And  spread  on  every  hand, 
Till  "robin's  wheat"  is  waving  wide 

Through  all  the  pleasant  land. 

In  Brittany,  in  Brittany 

When  summer-time  is  sweet 
With  robin's  mellow  litany 

Above  the  roiling  wheat, 

On  harvest-field  and  burdened  wain 

From  peasant  lips  is  heard 
The  tale  of  him  who  brought  the  grain — 

The  ruddy-breasted  bird. 


SONG  OF  THE  GORSE 

OH,  To-day  has  golden  hours, 
And  the  world  has  golden  cheer, 

And  the  gorse  has  golden  flowers 
Blowing  all  the  golden  year. 

So  a  frown  is  out  of  reason, 
For  the  heart  is  out  of  gloom; 

And  kissing' s  out  of  season — 
When  the  gorse  is  out  of  bloom! 


232 


WISKEDJAK  THE  JAY 

WISKEDJAK  the  Moose-bird,  Wiskedjak  the  Jay, 
Wiskedjak — the  rascal! — was  a  Man. 

Impishly  he  bantered  all  who  came  his  way, 
Playing  tricks  on  everything  that  ran. 

All  that  ran  or  bounded,  walked  or  crept  or  flew 
Through  the  wood,  were  targets  for  his  jokes; 

Jeering  at  the  Eagle,  lordly  Ken-e-u, 
Wiskedjak  was  always  plaguing  folks, — 

Teasing  wily  Waguc,  scaring  from  her  nest 

Wucagi  the  Heron  of  the  fen, 
Worrying  the  wood-friend,  everybody's  guest, 

Little  Oka-pandji-kuc  the  Wren. 

Mikinak  the  Turtle,  Kag  the  Porcupine — 
Kag  who  bears  the  spears  upon  his  back, 

Came  to  Nanabozo,  human  yet  divine, 
Told  him  of  the  deeds  of  Wiskedjak. 

[233] 


Mighty  Nanabozo  spake  a  potent  word: 
Wiskedjak,  the  culprit,  had  to  come. 

Mighty  Nanabozo  changed  him  to  a  Bird, 
Ruffling  out  the  feathers  with  his  thumb. 

"Go!"  said  Nanabozo,  "play  your  merry  games; 

Be  my  Little  Jester  of  the  Woods! 
When  the  green  is  tender,  when  the  maple  flames, 

When  the  mountains  don  their  snowy  hoods, 

"Flitting  through  the  pine-boughs  like  a  driven 
leaf, 

You  shall  mock  at  all  beneath  the  sky. 
Though  you  be  a  scapegrace,  though  you  be  a  thief, 

Men  shall  laugh  to  see  you  swagger  by!" 

Wiskedjak  the  Moose-bird,  Wiskedjak  the  scamp, 
Wiskedjak,  you  rogue  in  sooty  gray, 

Wake  the  wood  with   laughter,   sport   about  our 

camp! 
Wiskedjak,  oh,  Wiskedjak  the  Jay! 

[234] 


OCTOBER 

WHEN  the  silken  tress  is  blowing 
Round  the  greenly  kirtled  corn, 

When  the  apple's  cheek  is  glowing 
With  the  flush  of  early  morn. 

Summer  flees,  with  teasing  laughter 
Waving  wide  her  tasseled  firs; 

Baby  Autumn  tumbles  after, 
Pelting  her  with  chestnut-burrs. 


235 


THE  ORCHARD  WOODCHUCK 

BOLD  little  monk  of  the  intricate  burrow, 
Don't  you  pretend  you  are  out  for  a  stroll! 

Kale  of  the  closes  or  corn  of  the  furrow, 

Grapes  from  the  arbor  or  beans  from  the  pole — 

Which   will   be   missed   when   you've   ended   your 
dinner? 

Why  have  you  grown  so  disgracefully  fat? 
Where  are  you  going,  impenitent  sinner? 

Russet-clad  roisterer,  answer  me  that! 

What  is  your  business — not  begging  your  pardon? 

Why  have  you  honored  the  least  of  your  friends  ? 
Why  are  you  swaggering  here  in  my  garden? 

Kindly  explain  what  your  visit  portends. 

Tell  me — but,  see!  he  is  off  on  the  scamper; 
Oh,  how  that  brazen  marauder  can  run! 

[236] 


Quick  as  a  squirrel  though  full  as  a  hamper, 
Twinkling  his  saucy  black  heels  in  the  sun. 

Down  the  dark  tunnel  he  bolts  as  I  near  him; 

Then,  with  a  turn  in  his  underground  space, 
Up  comes  his  nose  and — the  villain!  just  hear  him! 

Chuck-chuck-chuck-chuckling,  he  laughs  in  my 
face! 

How  I  should  miss  him!  the  rascally  rover, 
Clown  of  the  orchard,  so  jolly  and  plump, 

Rustling  the  silvery  dew  from  the  clover, 
Sunning  his  back  on  the  boulder  or  stump. 

Chuckle  away,  then,  my  brown  little  brother, 
Safe  in  your  cool,  subterranean  hall; 

Earth  will  provide,  our  beneficent  mother 
(Blest  be  the  harvest!),  enough  for  us  all. 


[237 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

BRAVE-HEARTED  blossoms  that  rejoice  the  bee 

When  asters  droop,  when  goldenrod  is  dead, 
When  oak  leaves  clinging  late  upon  the  tree 

Have  changed  for  russet  their  Autumnal  red, 
Come,  leave  my  Northern  garden's  dreary  pale! 

For  threats  of  killing  frost  pervade  the  air; 
Together  we  shall  face  November's  gale 

And  sift  his  snowflakes  through  our  tawny  hair. 

We've    shared    the    best    delights,    full-blossomed 
flowers — 

Free  air,  wide  sky,  the  song  of  winds  that  pass, 
The  still  of  noon,  the  heartening  rush  of  showers, 

The  sleigh-bell  chime  of  crickets  in  the  grass. 
We've  drunk  the  strength  of  earth,  the  calm  of  night, 

The  golden  joy  of  sunshine  from  above, 
And  now,  in  Autumn's  chill  and  Winter's  blight, 

We'll  yield  that  joy  again  to  those  we  love. 

[238] 


MY  GUIDE'S  FABLE 

I   SWUNG  to  the   ripplin'   shallers   an'   brung  the 

canoe  a-land, 
An'  there  wuz  a  fine  red  squirrel  a-cussin'  to  beat 

the  band; 
A-snappin'    his    teeth    an'    barkin',    a-jerkin'    his 

bushy  tail— 
The  things  what  he  said  wuz  shockin',  up  there  on 

the  Injun  trail. 
Sez  he,  "Look  a-here,  young  feller!  these  woods  is  a 

den  o'  thieves! 
I'd  gethered  a  pile  o'  hazels  an'  hid  'em  among  the 

leaves; 

When  up  comes  that  highway  robber — that  scally 
wag,  bluecoat  jay— 
The  son  o'  the  thief  that  hatched  'im,  an'  filches 

the  lot  away! 
[  won't  eat  a  speck  o'  dinner!    I  swear  it  upon  my 

soul ! 

(239} 


Until  I  kin  make  that  sinner  surrender  them  nuts 

he  stole!'' 
"The  forest  is  thick  with  hazels!"  sez  I,  "an    the 

medder  corn 
Is  meller  with  juicy  kernels  ez  white  ez  them  teeth 

o'  yo'rn. 
The  shell  o'  the  shagbark's  open;   the  ches'nut  hez 

bu'st  the  burr; 
The  cones   in   a   thousan'   tassels   is   ripe   on   the 

glossy  fir. 
A  pert  little  chap,  ez  yo'  be,  with  on'y  the  meanest 

luck, 
C'uld  find,  in  a  whisk  an'  scamper,  ten  times  what 

the  jay  bird  tuk. 
Besides,  in  the  chipmunk's  pantry  they  say  there'i 

an  empty  shelf, 
An',  beggin'  yo'r  pardin,  ain't  yo'  a  bit  of  a  thie 

yo'rself?" 
He  jaws  me  a  piece  like  fury;    then  squeaks  liki 

the  Squire  in  hall 
A-scoldin'  a  stupid  jury:    "Yo'  don't  git  the  p'in 

at  all! 

[240] 


I'd  guv  'em,  an*  guv  my  blessin'!  but,"  givin'  his 
tail  a  fling, 

"Aw,  shucks  fer  the  nuts!  I'm  pressin'  the  Prin 
ciple  o'  the  thing!" 

"Ef  you'd  been  a  King,"  I  hollers,  "I  reck'n  that 
you'd  a  spent 

A  couple  o'  million  dollars  collectin'  a  copper  cent!" 


16  t  241  1 


A  WINTER  CRICKET 

WHAT  business  has  he  chirping  there? 

The  butterflies  and  birds  are  flown. 
What  bravery  of  grim  despair 

Awakes  his  chiming  monotone? 

The  hare,  in  furry  Winter  coat, 
Erects  his  ears  in  mild  amaze 

To  hear  that  keen,  untimely  note — 
That  cry  of  vanished  Summer  days. 

Sing,  Cricket!     Down  a  barren  hill 
The  icy-tinkling  stream  is  flung. 

So  graybeards  quaver,  weak  and  shrill, 
As  though  their  world  again  were  young; 

So  martyrs  lift,  when  hope  is  fled, 

The  hymn  that  shames  triumphant  Wrong; 

So  lovers  chant  when  love  is  dead — 
Sing,  Cricket,  for  the  love  of  Song! 

[242] 


A  FOREST  CHRISTMAS 

DEEP  in  the  heart  of  the  timber-lands 
The  Christmas  fir  of  the  woodfolk  stands, 
Bright  with  the  glitter  that  the  Frost  King  loans 
To  its  rich  green  tassels  and  its  dark-brown  cones. 
And  the  woodfolk  come  through  the  drifted  snow 
For  their  Yuletide  gifts  that  are  heaped  below: 

Bark  for  the  beaver,  sprouts  for  the  hare, 
Golden  honey  for  the  drowsy  bear, 
Moss  for  the  doe  and  the  antlered  buck, 
Wildwood  apples  for  the  gray  woodchuck, 
Nuts  for  the  chipmunk,  haws  for  the  grouse, 
And  alder  fruit  for  the  white-foot  mouse. 


[243 


THE  INDIAN'S  CALENDAR 

THE  Moon  of  Hardship,  January,  blocks 

The  hunter's  trail  with  snow,  and  buries  deep 

The  paths  of  Elk  and  Deer.    Among  the  rocks 
The  surly  Black  Bear  sleeps  the  winter  sleep. 

The  Moon  of  Mask-on-Face,  the  wise  Raccoon, 
Dark  February  storms;    yet,  while  he  blows, 

The  Wild  Geese  honk  that  Spring  is  coming  soon! 
The  horns  of  Stags  are  cast  on  melting  snows. 

The  Moon  of  Running  Waters,  March  the  Strong, 
Awakes  the  Woodchuck  from  his  winter  nap. 

Up  through  the  snow  crust  comes  the  Chipmunk 

throng, 
While  girdled  maples  yield  their  sugared  sap. 

The  Moon  of  Starry  Nights,  young  April  comes: 

The  Beaver  People  mend  their  dams  again; 

[244] 


Upon  his  log  the  crested  Partridge  drums, 
And  mighty  magic  moves  the  hearts  of  men. 

The  Moon  of  Leaves,  sweet,  blossom-dropping  May, 
Throws  mottled  shadows  over  forest  lawns 

Where  Woodmice  hold  their  dance  and  Rabbits  play 
And  timid  Does  lead  forth  their  dappled  Fawns. 

The  Moon  of  Strawberries,  rich-scented  June, 
With  bird-wings  crowds  her  sky  of  deeper  blue. 

Above  the  lake,  brave-hearted,  laughs  the  Loon; 
And  down  the  river  glides  the  birch  canoe. 

The  Moon  of  Maize  Ears,  bountiful  July, 

Gives  food  in  plenty; — slack  your  arching  bow. 

The  Muskrats  fill  their  wigwams  rafter-high. 
The  great  Moose  browse  where  water-lilies  grow. 

The  Moon  of  Wild  Rice  Harvest,  August,  brings 
The  Summer's  wane.  The  Buck  in  challenge 
calls; 

The  new-fledged  Shelldrakes  try  their  rapid  wings, 
And  Ouananiche  the  Salmon  leaps  the  Falls. 

[245] 


The  Moon  of  Falling  Leaves,  vermilion-hued, 
September  reigns  enthroned  on  mountain  crags. 

Flame-eyed,    the    Lynxes    watch,    while,    mighty- 

thewed, 
With  clashing  antlers  strive  the  roaring  Stags. 

The  Moon  of  Chestnuts,  calm  October,  tells 
The  Squirrel  tribe  to  fill  their  bins  anew. 

The  singing  birds  have  left  our  silent  dells, 
But  hither  range  the  roving  Caribou. 

The  Moon  of  Snow-shoes,  dull  November,  chills 
The  air,  and  gray  and  hard  is  all  the  earth. 

The  slow,  white  flakes  descend  upon  the  hills; 
The  Wolf  Pack's   howl  forebodes  the  days   of 
dearth. 

The  Great  White  Rabbit  Moon,  December,  shuts 
The  waters  fast  and  frees  the  stormy  gales; 

But  like  the  Beaver  Folk  within  their  huts, 
We'll  sit  about  our  lodge-fires,  telling  tales. 


[246] 


A  FIELD  HOSPITAL 

PAST  the  oldest  woodchuck's  burrow 
Where  the  forest  meets  the  furrow, 
Close  beside  a  tumbled  wall 
Lies  the  fairies'  hospital. 
Thither  from  their  rocky  cellars 
Come  the  little  cavern-dwellers; 
Thither,  wounded,  bruised,  and  broke, 
Flock  the  wood  and  meadow  folk, 
Tortoises  with  cleft  cuirasses, 
Limpy-legged  hoppergrasses, 
Minks  with  damaged  paws  in  slings, 
Bobolinks  with  tattered  wings, 
Draggled  butterflies  and  millers, 
Crippled  snakes  and  caterpillars, 
Ailing  rabbits,  dented  snails, 
Hirpling  down  converging  trails 
Toward  that  place  of  healing  wend  them. 
Gentle  elfin  hands  shall  tend  them 

[247] 


There,  with  all  the  herbs  and  worts 

That  are  remedies  for  hurts, 

Binding  up  the  sores  that  grieve  them 

With  soft  bands  that  spiders  weave  them, 

Heartening  them  with  fennel  brew, 

Bathing  them  in  blessed  dew; 

Till  the  katydids  and  crickets 

Leap  once  more  among  the  thickets, 

Till  the  butterfly  and  wren 

Take  the  trails  of  air  again. 


[248 


ALL-OUT-DOORS 


THE  HOME  WIND 

Ho!  Wind  of  the  wild  morasses! 
Oh,  breath  of  the  high  hill-passes! 
Your  call  is  sweet  in  the  city  street 
As  the  voice  of  a  friend  to  me. 
Come,  speak  to  a  fellow-rover! 
What  news  from  the  fields  of  clover? 
What  tidings  now  from  the  mountain's  brow 
And  the  waves  of  the  open  sea? 

Your  tale  of  the  woods  deliver — 
Of  oars  on  a  golden  river; 
Do  the  ripples  lisp  and  the  broad  blades  crisp 

As  they  did  in  a  younger  day? 
Is  ever  a  bark  with  motion 
Like  ours  on  the  breast  of  Ocean, 
With  a  drumming  sail  and  a  low  lee-rail 
And  a  bow  in  a  burst  of  spray? 


Though  ne'er  in  the  days  to  follow 
We  tent  in  the  wooded  hollow 
Nor  grip  the  wheel  as  the  slanted  keel 

Is  bared  by  the  dropping  swell, 
We'll  dream  that  the  foam  is  whiter, 
The  air  of  the  hills  is  brighter, 
The  woods  are  green  with  a  deeper  sheen, 
Because  they  were  loved  so  well. 

The  flare  of  the  maple  changes 
The  darks  of  the  rougli-backed  ranges; 
New  camp-fires  shine  through  the  matted  pine 

And  flame  where  the  seaweeds  lie; 
Old  hearths  that  the  heart  remembers 
Glow  red  with  awakened  embers, 
For  others  reign  in  our  lost  domain — 
The  world  of  the  wind-swept  sky. 


A  NOTE  TO  A  GUIDE 

DEAR  Tom-o'- Woods,  good  day  to  you! 
I  take  a  pen  to  say  to  you 
I'd  like  to  run  away  to  you — 

A  city  is  a  jail. 

I  loathe  the  walls  that  block  us  in, 
The  foolish  rags  they  frock  us  in; 
I  want  to  wear  a  moccasin 

And  feel  the  mossy  trail — 

To  watch  the  forest  shimmering, 
The  morning  kettle  simmering, 
To  know  the  flash  and  glimmering 

That  dipping  paddles  make, 
To  taste  the  breath  of  June  again, 
To  hear  the  calling  loon  again, 
To  see  the  mirrored  moon  again 

Within  a  dreaming  lake. 

[253] 


A  brook's  clear  laugh  is  haunting  me, 
A  squirrel's  chirr  is  taunting  me; 
I  know  the  hills  are  wanting  me — 

The  hills  I  long  to  roam. 
Then  fill  a  pack  or  two  for  me — 
Oh,  anything  will  do  for  me — 
And  patch  the  old  canoe  for  me; 

Your  boy  is  coming  home. 


[254 


WHEN  THE  DEER  COME  DOWN  TO  DRINK 

WHEN  the  deer  come  down  to  drink, 

Their  antlers  shake  the  dark  wild  cherries; 

The  moss  in  which  their  small  hooves  sink 
Is  gemmed  with  scarlet  partridge-berries. 

They  glide  where  waves  of  bracken  veil 
Some  fallen  forest  king's  disaster, 

Or  Indian-pipe  are  clustered  pale 
On  stems  of  moonlit  alabaster. 

The  bucks  with  proud  heads  lead  the  way 
Through  rocky  glade  and  ferny  hollow; 

The  does,  with  dappled  fawns  that  play 
As  softly  as  their  shadows,  follow. 

Among  the  oaks  a  squirrel  chirrs; 

A  porcupine — the  lubbard! — lurches 
With  rattling  quills  among  the  firs, 

A  blue-jay  scolds  among  the  birches, — 

[255] 


Then  all  is  still.     A  furtive  mink 

Alone  steals  up  through  brush  and  cumber 

To  watch  the  deer  come  down  to  drink 
And  feed  where  water-lilies  slumber. 


256] 


MOCCASINS 

"MOCCASINS  of  moosehide,  hanging  by  your  thongs, 
Where  would  you  be  taking  me  to-day?" 

"Deep  among  the  pine  woods,  where  a  man  belongs! 
Treading  up  the  balsam-fragrant  way. 

"For  the  clouds  have  done  their  weeping, 
All  the  cataracts  are  leaping, 
White  anemones  are  peeping 

From  the  runnels  of  the  snow; 

"Down  the  wind  the  hawk  is  riding, 
On  the  bough  the  jay  is  chiding, 
And  the  little  fawns  are  gliding 

On  the  trails  we  used  to  know." 


17  [  257  ] 


CANOE  TRAILS 

BROAD  is  the  track  that  the  steamer  takes 

Over  the  open  sea. 
Wide  are  the  ways  of  the  windy  lakes, 

Dear  are  the  lakes  to  me. 
And  the  sparkling  sound  is  good, 

Bright  is  the  river,  too; 

But  the  stream  that  winds  to  the  heart  of  the 
wood 

Is  the  trail  of  the  little  canoe. 

Up  through  the  fields  where  cattle  browse, 

Up  through  the  farms  of  rye, 
Under  the  arching  hemlock  boughs, 

Under  the  laughing  sky, 
Out  through  the  maze  where   the   muskrats  hide, 

Drawn  like  a  silver  clue, 
Clear  to  the  buttressed  mountain-side 

Goes  the  trail  of  the  little  canoe. 

[258] 


Clean  blue  flags  in  stately  ranks 

Stand  where  the  shallows  gleam; 
Ferns  grow  thick  on  the  mossy  banks 

Edging  the  deeper  stream; 
Tanagers  flash  in  the  vaulted  leaves 

Where,  faint-shimmering  through, 
A  drowsy  pattern  the  sunlight  weaves 

On  the  trail  of  the  little  canoe. 

Dip  of  the  paddle,  gurgle  and  plash, 

Quiet,  and  bird-note  clear, 
White  of  the  birch,  gray  of  the  ash — 

Balm  of  the  heart  is  here! 
Here  where  the  boldest  foot-paths  cease, 

Here  where  the  best  is  true, 
The  loveliest  road  to  the  shrines  of  peace 

Is  the  trail  of  the  little  canoe. 


259 


WASHINGTON  AT  TWENTY-ONE 

THE   EMBASSY  TO  THE  FRENCH   FORTS  ON  THE  OHIO, 
1753 

TIE  the  moccasin,  bind  the  pack, 
Sling  your  rifle  across  your  back, 
Up !  and  follow  the  mountain  track — 

Tread  the  Indian  Trail. 
See!  the  light  of  the  Westward  Star 
Shows  the  way  to  the  streams  afar! 
Ours  are  tidings  of  Peace  or  War, — 

Life  and  Death  in  the  scale. 

The  leaves  of  October  are  dry  on  the  ground; 
The  sheaves  of  Virginia  are  gathered  and  bound, 
Her  fallows  are  glad  with  the  cry  of  the  hound, 

The  partridges  whirr  in  the  fern; 
But  deep  are  the  forests  and  keen  are  the  foes 
Where  troubled  Ohio  in  wilderness  flows; 
We've  perils  to  conquer,  and  torrents  and  snowa 

To  traverse  before  we  return. 

[260] 


Hall  and  council-room,  farm  and  chase, 
Coat  of  scarlet  with  frill  of  lace, 
All  are  excellent  things,  in  place; 

Joy  in  these  if  ye  can. 
Mine  be  hunting-shirt,  knife,  and  gun, 
Camp  aglow  in  the  sheltered  run, 
Friend  and  foe  in  the  checkered  sun — 

That's  the  life  for  a  man! 


261 


IN  SEARCH  OF  A  LAKE 

I  FEEL  that  the  world  is  a  blunder, 
That  life  is  a  hopeless  mistake, 

And  everything  going  to  thunder; — 
I'm  going  in  search  of  a  lake. 

And  neither  by  wheel  nor  by  wagon; 

No  shaft-driven  motor  for  me! 
What  use  is  the  road-eating  dragon 

That  can't  climb  a  cliff  or  a  tree? 

Foot-free,  with  a  sea  breeze  behind  me, 
Due  north  by  a  point  or  so  west, 

The  sun  o'er  the  ridges  shall  find  me 
Afar  in  pursuit  of  my  quest, — 

A  lake,  where  the  dip  of  the  swallow 
Is  rilled  to  the  furthermost  shore, 

Where  ripples  of  melody  follow 
The  leisurely  sweep  of  the  oar; 

[262! 


A  lake  that  is  nourished  by  fountains 
As  pure  as  the  winds  in  their  flow, 

A  lake  that  is  guarded  by  mountains 
That  only  a  cragsman  may  know; 

Where  only  the  kingfisher's  rattle 
Is  heard,  or  the  splash  of  a  trout, 

Or  nothing  more  worthy  of  tattle 
Or  reading  or  writing  about. 

The  balsam  shall  roof  me  a  shieling, 
My  couch  shall  be  spread  in  the  brake; 

I'll  bathe  in  the  waters  of  healing; — 
I'm  going  in  search  of  a  lake. 


263 


NOBUDDY 

THE  country  fields  are  fenced  with  wood, 

The  city  squares  with  stone; 
They  all  belongs  to  Somebuddy 

Who  keeps  'em  for  his  own; 

They  all  belongs  to  Somebuddy, 

Whatever  he  may  be, 
An'  can't  be  used  by  Nobuddy— 

By  Nobuddy  like  me. 

What  Somebuddy  may  want  'em  for 

I  don't  know  as  I  care; 
I  only  want  a  place  to  rest 

If  there's  a  place  to  spare; 

A  patch  o'  grass  to  lie  upon 

That  ain't  for  sheep  or  cows, 
For  movin',  movin',  movin'  on 

Is  all  the  Road  allows. 

[264] 


An'  so  I  keep  a-movin'  on 

Apast  the  fields  an*  squares, 
Until  I  strike  the  Open  Land 

That's  got  to  be,  Somewheres; 

A  land  without  a  fence  or  wall, 

A  land  of  air  an*  sun, 
Where  woods  are  cool  an'  fields  are  green 

An'  sweet,  clear  waters  run; 

An'  far  as  weary  foot  kin  tread 

Or  wishful  eye  kin  see, 
It  all  belongs  to  Nobuddy — - 

And  Nobuddy  is  me. 


ST.  ANTHONY'S  MISSAL 

MINE  eyes  are  weak  with  searching  long 

In  works  of  mortal  pen- 
Rich  litanies  of  sacred  song 

And  lives  of  holy  men. 

Let  others  now  the  page  unfold, 

Let  others  gravely  con 
The  codex  bright  with  touch  of  gold 

And  rubricked  colophon. 

To-day  I  leave  the  cloistered  nook, 

I  close  the  heavy  tome; 
For  me  unrolls  a  grander  book 

Than  aught  of  Greece  or  Rome, — 

The  book  my  Father  wrote  for  me 

To  read  with  reverent  eye, 
Whose  hallowed  leaves  are  only  three, 

The  Earth,  the  Sea,  the  Sky. 
[266] 


THE    WOOD-BABY 

A    BALKAN    LULLABY 

WHEN  I  am  torn  from  all  my  joy 
Then  who  will  care  for  thee,  my  boy? 

Thy  mother  must  the  Mountain  be; 
Thy  sister  dear,  the  Hemlock-tree 
About  whose  boughs  the  creepers  cling 
And  weave  a  leafy  cradle-swing 
That,  when  the  forest  zephyrs  blow, 
Shall  softly  rock  thee  to  and  fro. 
The  watchful  Owl  shall  hover  nigh; 
The  Crickets  chime  thy  lullaby. 
When  rains  or  dews  of  heaven  fall 
Shalt  thou  be  bathed,  Beloved  of  all. 
The  Rabbit  brown,  the  Squirrel  gray 
For  thy  delight  shall  frisk  and  play; 
And  here,  betimes,  a  Doe  shall  run 
To  suckle  thee,  O  Little  One! 
[267] 


THE  STRANGER 

A    GYPSY    LEGEND 

HE  came  before  the  lonely  stead 
And  spake  in  music  rich  and  deep: 

"Now  let  me  in,  and  make  my  bed! 
The  time  hath  come  when  I  would  sleep." 

She  drew  the  latch,  that  maiden  brave, 
And  bade  the  pallid  stranger  stay. 

No  word  nor  look  of  thanks  he  gave, 
But  heavy,  heavy,  down  he  lay. 

And  seven  times  the  sun  arose, 
And  seven  times  the  shadow  crept, 

And  still  he  breathed  in  deep  repose, 
And  still  she  watched  the  while  he  slept. 

At  length  when  dawning  shimmered  red 
He  cast  aside  the  drowsy  spell; 

[268] 


Then,  laughing  clear,  the  maiden  said, 

"O,  dark-haired  youth,  thou  sleepest  well!" 

"My  rest  hath  stayed  a  flood  of  tears — 
That  now  must  flow,"  the  stranger  spake; 

"I  sleep  but  once  a  thousand  years, 
And  mankind  sorrow  when  I  wake." 

"Then  rest  thee  still!"  she  murmured  low; 

"Who  art  thou,  youth?"    He  made  reply, 
"My  name,  alas!  thou  must  not  know, 

For  they  that  hear  will  surely  die." 

She  laid  his  hand  across  her  heart 

And  spake  her  truth  with  naught  of  shame: 

"I  love  thee,  whatsoe'er  thou  art; 
Then  let  me  die,  but  tell  thy  name!" 

Oh,  thrice  the  ruddy  lips  he  pressed 
And  sadly  kissed  the  golden  head 

That  bowed  and  sank  upon  his  breast: 
"My  name  is  Death!"  the  stranger  said. 

[269] 


THE  RETURN 

MOTHER!    I  am  your  child! 
Born  of  you — kin  to  your  wilderness.    Take  me  tc 

rest 
Here,  in  the  balsamy  nave  of  your  mountainous 

breast! 

Mother,  long  have  I  played. 
All  your  domain  was  my  playing-ground,  highlanc 

and  vale; 
Treetop  and  stream  were  my  playmates,  and  billov 

and  gale. 

Mother!    Sing  me  to  sleep. 

Soft  as  the  voice  of  the  fir  shall  my  slumber-song  be 
Deep  as  the  organ  that  tones  in  your  thunderou: 
sea. 

Let  me  lie  down! 

[270] 


"ALL'S  WELL" 

THEY  tied  their  venturesome  canoe 

With  hempen  tether. 
The  trail  was  wide  enough  for  two 

(If  close  together). 

The  woods  were  hushed;    the  pleasant  air 

Was  balsam-laden; 
In  dappled  shade  they  wandered  there, 

The  youth  and  maiden, 

Beneath  the  leaves  that,  tenderwise, 
Reached  down  to  pat  them, 

And  never  dreamed  how  many  eyes 
Were  staring  at  them. 

A  deermouse  peeped  from  tufts  of  moss 

To  watch  them  nearing; 
A  woodchuck  saw  them  safe  across 

The  forest  clearing. 


Erect  a  rabbit  sat,  that  he 

Might  better  con  them, 
While  saucy  squirrels,  two  or  three, 

Dropped  twigs  upon  them. 

A  doe  and  fawn  looked  forth  amazed 
Where  birches  whitened; 

And  all  the  woodfolk  peered  and  gazed, 
Yet  none  was  frightened; 

For,  through  the  fern  and  branches  bent 

In  leafy  covers, 
The  whispered,  rustling  watchword  went 

"Don't  mind;   they're  lovers!" 


[272] 


LITTLE  HOMES  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

LITTLE  homes  in  the  mountains, 
Little  homes  in  the  hills, 

Up  where  the  snow-born  fountains 
Melt  in  a  score  of  rills: 

Reared  where  the  sky  uncloses, 
Up  where  the  day  is  born, 

Each  with  its  garth  of  roses, 
Each  with  its  patch  of  corn; 

Shack  of  the  logger's  rearing, 

Hut  in  the  craggy  glen, 
Cot  in  the  sun-washed  clearing, 

Yours  is  a  breed  of  Men! 

Men  of  the  larger  pattern, 
Men  of  the  cleaner  lives, 
Fathers  of  clear-eyed  children, 

Husbands  of  plain-clad  wives; 
18  [  273  1 


Strong  with  the  day  for  labor, 
Calm  when  the  star-vault  domes, 

Wise  in  the  simpler  wisdom, 
Blest  in  their  little  homes; 

Up  where  the  days  are  tranquil, 
Up  where  the  nights  are  cool — 

Little  homes  in  the  mountains 
Clustered  about  a  school! 


[274 


SONG  OF  THE  FIRST  FURROW 

EADWARD,  the  Saxon  freeman, 
Wielder  of  sword  and  shield, 

Flax-bearded  prince  of  glee-men, 
Came  to  the  waiting  field. 

(Broken  were  Winter's  fetters; 

Done  were  the  days  of  dearth; 
Now  must  the  wealth-begetters 

Waken  the  fallow  earth.) 

Full  on  his  linen  tunic 

Blazoned,  the  Cross  he  bore: 

Burned  on  his  belt  in  Runic 
Symbols  of  Odin's  lore; 

Blue  was  his  cloak,  and  sightly, 
Clasped  with  a  silver  charm; 

Gold  was  the  torque  that  brightly 
Circled  his  massive  arm. 
t  *7S  1 


Breaking  the  ground-mole's  burrow 

Plodded  his  yoked  pair; 
Cleanly,  the  fragrant  furrow 

Followed  the  cleaving  share; 

And  as  the  loamy  leaven 

Rolled  from  the  iron  tongue, 

Clear  to  his  God  in  heaven, 
Eadward,  the  plowman,  sung: 

"Erce!    Erce!     Erce! 

Hear,  for  thy  sons  awake  thee! 

Hail  to  thee,  silent  Erda! 

Hail  to  thee,  Mother  Earth! 
God  the  Eternal  bless  thee; 
God  the  Almighty  make  thee 
Wide  with  the  crop  to  nourish 

All  that  are  thine  of  birth! 

"Warm  be  thy  breast  for  seedlings,, 
Freed  of  the  frost  king's  rigor, 
Green  be  thy  sprouts  upspringing, 
Wantoning,  fresh  and  sweet. 

[276] 


Rich  be  thy  vales  in  harvest; 
Roll  thou  with  corn  in  vigor; 
Broaden  with  gold-beard  barley; 
Whiten  with  waving  wheat! 

"Ye  that  be  high  in  heaven, 
Angels  and  Saints  and  Hallows, 
Stand  ye  about  our  bound'ries! 

Guard  them  from  blight  and  charm! 
Safe  from  all  droughts  and  blastings 
Shield  ye  our  fields  and  fallows; 
Send  none  so  wise  in  evil 

Spell-craft  to  say  them  harm! 

"Erce!  Erce!  Erce! 
Erda!  O  silent  Erda! 
Drawn  is  the  first  free  furrow, 

Sown  is  the  votive  seed. 
Soon  be  thy  soft  brown  bosom 
Fair  as  the  front  of  Gerda, 
Fertile  and  full  of  fodder, 

Fruitful,  our  folk  to  feed!" 

[277] 


THE  HARVEST-LINE 

WARRIORS  to  whom  the  Wheat  bows  a  comely  head, 

Conquerors,  whose  kindly  steel  wins  the  world  its 
bread, 

Polar  zone  and  polar  zone  bound  the  battle-plain 

Where  ye  strive  and  Famine  flies,  Reapers  of  the 
Grain! 

South  to  North  your  legions  march,  up  the  rolling 
sphere; 

Every  day  is  Harvest-day,  somewhere,  all  the  year. 

Though  our  northern  fields  may  sleep,  locked  in 
frost  and  rime, 

Somewhere,  ever-gracious  Earth  rings  with  Har 
vest-time. 

Close  in  Summer's  fragrant  wake,  through  the  wav 
ing  lands, 

Trampling  up  our  spinning  globe  come  the  Reaper 
Bands. 


Ranged  from  sunset  Oregon  east  to  broad  Cathay, — 
Twenty  miles,  forty  miles,  sixty  miles  a  day, — 
Million-armed,  the  sun-browned  host  moves  with 

one  design; 
Northward,  ever  northward,  rolls  the  world's  great 

Harvest-line. 

Argentina's  plains  were  reaped  as  the  year  began. 
March:  Her  dusky  harvesters  billowed  Hindustan. 
April:  Tawny  Mexico  hailed  the  troops  advance. 
June:  The  steady  cradle-scythes  swept  the  dales 

of  France. 

August:  North  to  Idaho  barn  and  bin  are  stored. 
Last,  in  far  Canadian  vales  gleans  a  sturdy  horde. 

Up  the  world,  round  the  world,  up  the  world  again 
Swings  the  never-resting  steel  that  wins  the  Food 

of  Men. 
Million-armed,  a  sun-browned  host  moves  with  one 

design; 
Northward,  ever  northward,  rolls  the  world's  great 

Harvest-line! 

[279] 


IN  PRAISE  OF  APPLE-TREES 

OUR  mountain  firs  are  straight  and  tall; 

And  oaks  there  be  with  mossy  knees 
And  pleasant  shade;    but,  best  of  all 

For  comradeship,  are  apple-trees. 

Waist-deep  in  fragrant  meadow-grass, 

A  kindly  company  are  they; 
And  what  is  richer  than  the  mass 

Of  bloom  that  buries  them  in  May? 

Your  hemlock  sighs  of  forest  combe; 

Your  pine  of  rocky  height  or  glen; 
But  apple-orchards  breathe  of  home, — 

Their  trees  have  always  dwelt  with  men. 

Beneath  their  boughs  the  cattle  graze, 
Among  their  leaves  the  robins  flute, 
And  bountifully  Autumn  weighs 

Their  branches  low  with  hardy  fruit. 

[280! 


Yes,  elm  and  beech  have  stately  charms, 
And  so  have  sycamore  and  lime; 

But  apple-trees  have  friendly  arms 
That  beg  a  little  boy  to  climb. 


[281 


NEPERHAN 

THE  hills  were  brown,  the  fields  were  gray; 

Enthralled  in  ice  the  river  ran, 
But  golden  was  the  air,  the  day 

We  sought  the  source  of  Neperhan. 

The  low,  black  alder's  hardy  slips 
Grew  thick  beside  each  rustic  span; 

Their  berries  kissed  with  crimson  lips 
The  frozen  flow  of  Neperhan. 

The  hawk  swung  high;    and,  fearing  not, 
The  squirrel  fluffed  his  coat  of  tan. 

Pure  quiet  hallowed  every  cot 
That  nestles  by  the  Neperhan. 

At  dawn  we  left  the  idle  mills; 

At  noon  our  long  ascent  began; 
Sun-red,  among  December  hills, 

We  found  the  source  of  Neperhan. 

[282] 


SKATING   TO   ALBANY 

WE  drew  the  thong  at  toe  and  heel; 

With  youth  and  health  we  took  the  field; 
Our  skates  were  scimitars  of  steel; 

They  scarred  old  Hudson's  icy  shield. 

Behind  rose  Storm  King's  silvered  throne 
Begirt  with  vassal  spears  of  pine; 

Before,  the  river,  all  our  own, 

Stretched  ever  north  his  frigid  line. 

We  felt  the  thrill  of  pulsing  tides — 
The  one  delight  that  cannot  cloy; 

The  miles  we  measured  by  our  strides, 
And  every  impulse  was  a  joy. 

High  cities  hailed  us  as  we  flew, 

Quaint  kobolds  becked  from  crag  and  hill 
To  us  the  clear  nor' wester  blew 

The  frosty  kiss  of  Kaaterskill. 

[283] 


The  day  that  died  on  crimson  scaurs 
Bequeathed  us  night's  transcending  boon. 

Oh,  steel-black  sky  and  diamond  stars! 
Oh,  pale  enchantment  of  the  moon! 


284] 


BREAKING  CAMP 

FAREWELL,   wild   hearth   where  many   logs   have 

burned! 

Among  your  stones  the  fireweed  may  grow. 
The    brant    are    flown,    the    maple    leaves    have 

turned, 
The  goldenrod  is  brown — and  we  must  go. 

Good-by,  calm  nights  and  unrepented  days 
Of  brave,  free  life  devoid  of  care  and  wrong, 

Of  hunters'  fare,  of  merry-chorused  lays, 

And  woodland  hush  more  sweet  than  any  song. 

The  owl  shall  hoot  across  a  lonely  lake 

In    whose    full    depths    our   moon    imprisoned 

shines, 

Whose  drowsy  waves  no  flashing  paddles  break, 
Whose  pebbled  shores  are  fringed  with  dream 
ing  pines. 

[285] 


The  buck  shall  stamp  and  lift  a  furtive  hoof — 
Where  once  we  dwelt  the  bear  shall  make  her 
den; 

The  bat  shall  hang  beneath  a  broken  roof 

Whose  birchen  cover  knew  the  dreams  of  men. 


286] 


VENVOI 

HILLS 

I  NEVER  loved  your  plains! — 

Your  gentle  valleys, 
Your  drowsy  country  lanes 

And  pleached  alleys. 

I  want  my  hills! — the  trail 
That  scorns  the  hollow. 

Up,  up  the  ragged  shale 
Where  few  will  follow, 

Up,  over  wooded  cres't 

And  mossy  boulder 
With  strong  thigh,  heaving  chest, 

And  swinging  shoulder, 

So  let  me  hold  my  way, 
By  nothing  halted, 
[287] 


Until,  at  close  of  day, 
I  stand,  exalted, 

High  on  my  hills  of  dream — 
Dear  hills  that  know  me! 

And  then,  how  fair  will  seem 
The  lands  below  me, 

How  pure,  at  vesper-time, 
The  far  bells  chiming! 

God,  give  me  hills  to  climb, 
And  strength  for  climbing! 


THE    END 


[288] 


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